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Drugs are funny. Well, actually they’re not funny, but they are to me today.

This afternoon I had a molar extracted. Before they went to work, they asked me if I wanted to do it with just Novocain. “Hell no,” I cried. “If you’re going to pull my tooth, you’d better knock me the hell out or I ain’t doing it!” Seeing the panic in my eyes, they rightfully decided put me into deep sedation. I spoke with the assistant, Stacey, as she was preparing the devil’s instruments that were going to be used on me. “This isn’t my first time”, I informed her, “I had one taken out by a local doctor many years ago that everyone called Painless Parker. He used sodium pentothal, and I spent the entire afternoon laughing my head off”. I didn't actually say head, but you know what I mean. Stacey: We don’t use that anymore. What do you use? Stacey: (Mumble, mumble) and propofol. Me: Propofol? Isn’t that what they used to kill Michael Jackson? Stacey: Yes, but don’t worry. We’re only going to give you a little bit to help you sleep. Me (under my breath): Yeah, I think that’s exactly what they told him. In any event, they hit me with the drugs and off I go to La La Land. I can feel the surgeon pulling and tugging on my tooth but I seem to not really be aware of what he’s doing. The very next moment, Stacey is telling me I’m done and I can go. I check my arms and legs to make sure I’m leaving with everything I came in with; I just don’t trust that Michael Jackson stuff. It’s a few hours later and I've spent most of the time sleeping. I think they’re still trying to kill me—just slowly so I can’t call the cops. The giant cave in my mouth is not bleeding or even really hurting very badly. It’s just . . . well . . . a giant hole in my gums. The whole thing wasn’t too bad, and I’m kinda hoping Stacey will come back tonight to give me another jolt of propofol so I can finally sleep through the night. And that brings me to the original topic—drugs. I’m old now, and I have all kinds of drugs. I have drugs for diabetes and drugs for heart attacks and drugs for cancer and drugs because I have trouble breathing and drugs to offset the effects of the other drugs and probably some drugs that doctors prescribe just because they get a commission on them. I’ll make a confession. Unlike Bill Clinton, when I smoked weed in the pre-historic days, I did inhale. It was simply part of being social. Everyone I knew smoked weed, and we would spend an unreasonable amount of time comparing strains and effects and costs, etc. I thought I knew pot and knew it well. If you don’t remember from other blogs, I have cancer. Actually, I have several types of cancer, but I ignore them all, and so far they’re returning the favor. Last August I asked my oncologist about all the things I'd been hearing about the benefits of medical marijuana. While she said she couldn’t say that it had any scientifically proven effect, she stated that lots of her patients were taking it, and it seemed to be helping most of them. When I asked if it might help my cancer, she said that it certainly wouldn’t hurt me. Okay then, off to see the doctor who can qualify me for medical marijuana. I bring with me all my voluminous medical records to prove that I qualify. When I’m brought in to see her, I’m slightly concerned that her English skills are about on par with someone who doesn’t speak English. She begins asking me questions about my qualifying medical conditions and when I mention cancer, she checks a box. Diabetes gets another box checked. Heart attack qualifies for two boxes and so on. In no time she pronounces me fully qualified for my marijuana card. I almost beg her to look at my medical records but she said that it wasn’t necessary as I had answered all of the questions correctly. It occurs to me that virtually anyone could get a card, since they don’t have to provide proof of a qualifying medical condition, but I wisely decide to grab my paperwork and get the hell out of there.

My new handy-dandy laminated card will arrive from the state in a couple of weeks, but in the meantime I have a paper one that I can use at any marijuana dispensary to buy any weed I want. And the cops can’t touch me! I’m curious to see what it will be like to go to a weed retail store and shop for my “medication.” Back in the day, you bought whatever your dealer had, and a great recommendation was “It’s good shit, man!” Tomorrow I’ll head off Cape Cod to the nearest dispensary and see what my options are. In the early 70s I paid $10.00 an ounce for pretty good stuff, but I figure it’s probably gone up since then, and since they only take cash (What? Really?) I need to head to the bank first thing in the morning. Stay tuned for my trip to medical marijuana heaven.


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