My sojourn in the Bering Sea continues. As I wrote last week, I have boarded the swift-keeled Orrin Hatch and headed north not only to debunk the pernicious "global warming" myth on its home turf, but also to escape the more unsavory aspects of the Seattle summer: crime, pestilence, scarlet women who insist upon shaving their nether regions and languishing lakeside in pornographic two-part bathing costumes, and, of course, worst of all: the annual criminal bacchanalia known as Hempfest.
I was woefully reminded of this illegal-drug bonanza when, a few days ago, I put in at the Pribilof Islands for provisions—the Hatch was running low on smoked bison and cigars—and found an interspace cafeteria through which I could retrieve my electric correspondence. Far too many of these missives were from the home office, joyful little notes written by addled imbeciles who wished to inform me that this week's Stranger would devote itself to celebrating the "virtues" of shameless marijuana consumption. Setting aside, for a moment, the fact that The Stranger itself provides a weekly warning about the dangers of shameless bong-sucking, I must clearly state for anyone who may be confused on the matter: There is absolutely nothing meritorious about inhaling the fumes from a Schedule I controlled substance. Look at what it did to Bill Clinton—or, for that matter, to the current user in chief.
Still, according to the drafts that were delivered by my trusty carrier falcon after I departed the Pribilofs, a cadre of Stranger addicts have lined up in this issue to testify that abusing marijuana has made them better people. Utter nonsense, of course, and all I can glean from their sorry exercise is the following: JESSE VERNON inhaled and immediately began to suffer the delusion that she is Julia Child. BRENDAN KILEY "sparked" a "doobie" and promptly forgot that a real man does not spend his time pruning roses or scrubbing the bathroom. CHRISTOPHER FRIZZELLE, while under the influence, came up with a highly specious equation by which ingesting a tray of pot brownies + going to the gymnasium and staring glassy-eyed at the barbells = negative calorie absorption. Two most unpropitious newcomers, Mr. HAVENOBALLS and Mr. WHIPPED, both rationalized that their reefer usage helps them in matters familial, including (in a stunning perversion of logic) the care of a most unfortunate babe-in-arms. DAVID SCHMADER came to believe that his chronic marijuana use made his writing better, a statement disproved every week in these pages. And ARI SPOOL—a name I hoped to never see again—thought it wise (it was not) to share way too many X-rated details of her dope-fiend sex life. That, my dear, is what we used to call being a floozy.
The capper to this idiocy is DOMINIC HOLDEN delivering organizational tips—well, I can stop right there, can't I? The irony is self-evident. My friends, packages like this one call for the clarity of advice that only my trusted confidante Nancy Reagan can deliver: Just say no.