In 1998 I was an aspiring screenwriter living in a small apartment in Hollywood. The building was across the street from a liquor store with a red neon sign that would blink on and off, reflecting on me in what I imagined to be a film noir-ish way as I sat at the computer, channeling my inner Bukowski — only instead of drinking cheap wine and writing poems about the struggle of the working class, I was smoking weed and eating takeout Chinese food while writing a screenplay about two dudes who smoked weed and ate takeout Chinese food.

The idea was to channel the Marx Brothers through the filter of Cheech and Chong, presented via the one-long-crazy-night movie paradigm. It was full of things that made the 25-year-old me laugh: fake rap videos, dogs getting stoned and large-breasted aliens.

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