Joyner has a nice little round-up.
Me? Well, yeah: if someone with the last names “Bush” or “Palin” had gotten busted for possession, Sullivan would have gone ballistic.
However, I happen to belong to the most discriminated-against state in the Union with respect to drug laws: I am a citizen of California, which has legalized medicinal use of pot. However, our darling Federal government declines to respect that voter-approved law, which means that it conducts occasional raids on our fuckin’ clinics. That means that I am reluctant to get my “card,” even though the occasional toke might be a nice addition to my anti-insomnia arsenal. Instead, if I want it, I’ll have to buy it illegally, rather than in accordance with the laws of my state—so that I don’t risk putting my name on a list that could be used against me by the ever-luscious Feds.
This makes about as much sense as packaging my mother’s Ritalin in such a way that the pill be indivisible, and must be taken at a dose appropriate to her biomass. After all, my doctor won’t prescribe a dose that is high enough, but the pills I get from my mother are too high: so I can grump through the day without quite enough energy, or I can speed through it.
No middle ground. And the Feds apparently don’t want me to get measured doses of pot under medical supervision. Instead, I’m supposed to buy it on the street in defiance of the laws of my own state.
The regulation of pleasure. Somebody should write a book about that.*
* Oh, wait: it’s not soup, yet. So never mind.
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Mortar. Pestle. Crush to powder, cut apppropriately.
“Me? Well, yeah: if someone with the last names “Bush” or “Palin” had gotten busted for possession, Sullivan would have gone ballistic.”
Fascism by any other name…