[Carl's school principal and Steve are bonding over marijuana consumption]
No one around here really knows those terrapins are a Grateful Dead thing. The kids call 'em Mr. G's turtles. Shit, man, they don't even know who the Grateful Dead are. Ah, man. The summer of 1979. The best summer of my life. Followed the Dead around the Midwest. Supported myself selling grilled cheese in the parking lot. Yeah, they made great music. Their music blows. But their female fans, were a bunch of patchouli-soaked sluts who all wanted to ball their first black guy. I never embraced tokenism with more gusto. Those terrapins were a parting gift from this Skidmore chick who sucked me off like I had diamonds buried in the bottom of my ball sack. Whoo! Man... this is some good shit.
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