It's one of a few clips from Dave supposedly showing officers searching for the suspects behind the Boston Marathon bombers back in 2013.
It was posted to the E.A.W Facebook page on Monday with a caption leading people to believe a marijuana grower was hiding from the fuzz.
The clip went massively viral this week, notching up more than 9.2 million views and being shared 200,000 times.
The original footage came from Watertown Lockdown Surveillance, posted to YouTube by Josh Dave in April 2013.
So there you go guys, don't believe everything you see.
Now as for the Spice Girls reunion, however, we're choosing to believe.
Whether it's rumours of a Spice Girls reunion or that it actually is possible to earn $4000 a week working flexible hours from home, it would be nice if everything on the interwebs was true.
We mean, we really wanted to believe that this video of a guy hiding from a swat team behind a piece of equipment like he was Bugs flipping Bunny to be real.
[Via 9 Story International Distribution]
We were off the grid and out of cell range. Hundreds of pounds piled up around us. It wasn’t mine, but I had no way of proving that. I had a residual fear of police raids and spent a lot of time planning escape routes. I kept my purse on me at all times in case I had to run for it.
But the old hippies weren’t totally full of shit: prohibition created an outlaw world with its own systems of governance. In rural communities bereft of tax dollars, the legacy growers maintained their own roads, supported local schools and community centers, and ran their own radio station, the legendary KMUD, which broadcast reports of police activity so everyone could prepare for possible raids.
The Humboldt of my youth was a society created by the imposed condition of prohibition and embodied both the joy and the darkness of life outside the law. On a good day, those mountains could feel like Utopia. Weed wasn’t the only thing that grew well. The gardens yielded giant tomatoes, skeins of nasturtium, sunflowers waving at blue California skies. On Sundays, we’d ride ATVs over to a hidden valley where work crews congregated to play twilight volleyball and pass the world’s finest joints. Everyone was a self-proclaimed artist, and the culture had an air of creative largesse.
California voters finally bit the bullet and legalized cannabis in 2016. I was one of the lucky ones. Weed money had bought me time to build my writing career. When trimming was no longer lucrative, I could afford to put down my scissors for good. My days of cold sweats and paranoia were behind me.
After we cut down the plants, it was our job to process the dried branches. A lot of people thought it was cool to be surrounded by so much weed, but I didn’t. I didn’t find weed romantic and I hated trimming. Resin gummed up my scissors and burnt my eyes. We couldn’t sit outside because of helicopter surveillance, so we worked in a filthy shack, 14-hour days, seven days a week. I developed carpal tunnel syndrome and an allergy that puffed up my face and impaired my vision.
I n the beginning, there was weed. My dad and I would walk down the gravel road and up a path through the woods to his patch, where the plants were partially hidden by a canopy of maples. It wasn’t an ideal spot for sunlight, but it was an ideal spot for hiding. My dad would carry bags of fertilizer on foot for a mile so that our truck was never spotted in the vicinity.
In its heyday, Humboldt represented the flip sides of anarchy. On one hand you had gun-toting “grow-bros” who were destroying the local ecology in the name of the bottom line, and on the other hand you had your old hippies in precious knit caps rambling about their cannabis genetics, their commitment to solar power and their vision for a self-sufficient society.