Sometimes you smoke a joint and fall asleep while watching Netflix. Other times you wind up cruising the Pacific Coast Highway with a cast member of 'The Goonies' after a series of misadventures that seem torn from the pages of 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.'

Or at least that’s what happened to a former editor of a prominent magazine back in 2010. Our source - who wishes to remain anonymous for reasons that will be abundantly clear by the time you finish this story - had a legendary sesh that ended with him getting a lifetime ban from renting luxury cars. Seriously.

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(Photo by Jeff J Mitchell/Getty Images)

The incident started innocently enough. Our source was handling a magazine photoshoot starring Mary Jane. The idea was to show off the many ways you can consume cannabis, so our source and his company wound up buying thousands of dollars worth of weed for the shoot. 

"[We] did the whole high-end photographic still life of the entire strata of marijuana consumables and combustibles as if we were shooting a Wine Spectator spread," he told Civilized. "That totalled $4500 in various types of anything you could imagine."

Amassing that much marijuana was hard enough given that the incident took place years before recreational legalization became law in California. But it was even trickier to get rid of it all. 

"After the shoot was completed, nobody knew what to do with the stuff. We gave most of it to the staff. But that was a bad idea. Days went by with nothing much getting done and people walking around the office like patients from 'One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest'."

But that was a 'best-case scenario' compared to what happened to our source.

"I took an insane amount of leaf - like the size of a bag from a Cheech and Chong movie," he confessed. "Waiting outside of the photoshoot for me was a 911 Turbo Cabriolet Porsche. Black with tan interior. You see, car companies often will lend editors vehicles for the weekend for 'test drives.'  I figured what’s the worst that could happen? I’m driving from the office to that famed hotel of decadence: The Chateau Marmont. The place is a nonstop rager from Thursday through Sunday. Add a 200mph ferocious, turbo convertible and you’ve got a recipe for awesome."

The evening began with hobnobbing at the Nobu Malibu restaurant, where our source dined alongside "an Emmy-winning producer who just sold his business for a $100 million, and the director of a hit trilogy about bachelor parties. Each of them puffed their Pax vaporizers discreetly. I was loaned one after being chastised for not having my own - and for wearing pink pants. Dinner soon ended but the party was just beginning. After cruising down the Pacific Coast Highway at sunset - blaring Phil Collins because some cliches must be indulged - we stopped at an enormous beachside bungalow owned by a now bankrupt film mogul who took a lot of people’s money before disappearing. At the time though, he was still on the rise."

But our source's night went downhill the second he arrived at the bungalow and was invited inside by the last person you'd expect to play doorman at a party.

"One of the guys who played 'The Fratelli Brothers' from 'The Goonies' opened the door and let us in. He was singing opera and it was echoing through the house - and my Pax-fried brain. As I walked past the kitchen, a hippyish lady in an apron pulled out a piping hot tray of brownies, which a butler - in full tuxedo - stacked on a silver platter before circling the party and shouting, 'Pot brownies! Pot brownies! Pot brownies!' repeatedly in hopes of being heard over the Goonies guy, who kept on singing while stuffing brownies in his mouth."

We'll let you guess which Fratelli that was.

So our source followed suit, which he would soon regret because those weren't just any old pot brownies.

"They were packed with 1000mg of THC per brownie. And these suckers have a long fuse. So I kept eating more, violating a fundamental rule of mine: 'You can always take more, but you can’t take less.' So when those brownies hit, they hit hard."

So our source did the sensible thing and sat down for a while, breathing deep while waiting for the frenzy to pass. Just kidding: he went full panic mode.

"The sudden need to flee, overcame me with a power stronger than anything I’d ever felt before," he said. "But in the way of freedom was a police checkpoint on the PCH looking for drunk drivers. So I stayed at the party - physically at least. Mentally, I was circling Pluto and not coming back for splashdown for a really, really long time. In what seemed like some scene from Kubrick’s '2001: A Space Odyssey,' I had fallen through some wormhole of space and time. And when I came back,  the bungalow was empty except for me and the guy from the 'Goonies,' who needed a ride home. Who was I to refuse?"

"So we climbed into the Porsche - top down - and made our way towards Sunset Boulevard. A nice, gentle, 30-minute ride in normal circumstances. But Mr. Fratelli kept rolling joints from my bottomless sack of green and smoking an endless chain of joints in the borrowed car. Somehow we made it past the checkpoint - even thought we were doing 15 in a 35, crawling along Sunset as Mr. Fratelli turned my brain into a Jello platter."

But the Porsche was even worse for wear, thanks to the 'Goonies' actor.

"He was talking a mile-a-minute and alternating between drags on a joint and drags on a cigarette, which he repeatedly dropped, leaving burn holes in the car's upholstery. But those were tomorrow problems. Tonight was just about getting home. Finally I pulled into my bungalow, walked briskly into my bedroom and locked the door. Sleep came quick but for the occasional bit of opera from Mr. Fratelli."

"I awoke probably 10 hours later, reached into my pocket for the keys to the car. They were still there. Phew. But upon examination of the Porsche, it had been driven after I went to bed. It was parked across a bed of flowers outside, and the rims were scratched to hell - like it'd been doing donuts in a cactus field."

So he went out to spruce up the poor old Porsche.

"I took the 911 for one last ride to the carwash before giving it back to the very sober looking representative who was waiting in the driveway when I returned. From afar, it looked pristine. But close up,  a little worse for wear. I sheepishly gave him the keys and got an Uber out of there away from any potential trouble. Then, for a week or two, silence."

But that reprieve wouldn't last much longer.

"Finally, our automotive editor comes in my office and hands me a letter which states in the subject line. 'Your mate left doobage in our Turbo, dude.' Not only were there burn marks all over the leather and scratched rims. But I had managed to leave about an ounce of Indica sprinkled all over the interior along with my medical marijuana card. The letter from Porsche below tells it better than I can."

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