A knock on my door usually means one of two things: Either the Chinese food delivery man finally found my address, or my dealer wants to show off the latest Big Buddha strain he just got off some bro downtown for hella cheap. But unless Hermes is also sporting bloodshot eyes, I feel rude answering the door with a cloud billowing out of my living room. Smoking etiquette requires a sesh with my dealer for sure, but every time I’m handed my Kung Pao chicken, I wonder if a Trainwreck spliff would trounce my measly tip.

Once in a while, some mad dasher from Domino’s will give my roomies and me a “Smells good in here” or a “Looks like I got here just in time.” I used to just neglect the small talk for what it was worth, but I’ve come to understand how easy it is to include your meal ticket into the rotation. Because unless the delivery guy is glaring at you from behind that goofy uniform with a disapproving smirk, most delivery men and women would love to grab a drag before having to bounce to the next drop-off point on the list.

I’ve seen some delivery guys practically ask for it. While I’m flipping through a stack of Washingtons, their eyes usually dance around the room until they find my bong resting on the coffee table. The bigger stoners don’t even have to search – my Snoop Dogg Blunt Wrap poster tipped them off the second their eyes focused through the haze. And if they are all about the Zig-Zag smoking, I think it’s a customer’s obligation to pass the delivery man a bowl in charity’s honor.

Besides, do you really think they can do anything with that buck or two you’d have thrown their way otherwise? Okay, so they’ll be able to swipe a candy bar from International on their way home, but that’s even considering you tip them at all. I’m positive that tips in Isla Vista are about as rare as Dead Heads at an Avenged Sevenfold concert. Sometimes you get too distracted to add on a little extra, though, especially if you’re watching your neighbor the Guitar Hero II master bust out a 623-note streak on Hangar 18 when the doorbell rings. I mean, pizzas can be devoured, but legends never die.

You might be asking: What if they don’t smoke? Well, I seriously doubt any conscious or sober entity could handle a food delivery shift for more than a few hours. Plus, most delivery workers I’ve come across smoke more weed than I do. Whether or not I doubt that their ganja is as good as mine, I feel that the offering is a perfect time to propose a powwow that will expand the horizons of everyone involved. For, not only does the deliveryman get a quick lift from the mundane, but now the customer has locked up a consistent service that will pull through in the clutch whenever hunger matters most.

Do you think that a Silvergreen’s sandwich or DŽjˆ Vu burger will take three hours to get to your house when those in possession of your order know its delivery foreshadows a few tokes? I doubt it. Do you think they’ll still hock a loogie in your burger now? Maybe, but at least this way you can still call their boss and report that the fucker stoned if you bite into something that doesn’t belong inside a bun.

So, the next time you phone in an order to your favorite local restaurant with antsy fingers, make sure to roll up a blunt or pack a bong before a knock comes a-rapping on your chamber door. You never know what might stem from the situation.