A national movement is underway over the treatment of druggies in our society. Druggies claim they’ve been unfairly maligned for decades. They’re sick and tired of the stereotypes that have been applied to them, and are seeking understanding for the human beings that live behind their vacant eyes and edentulous grins.
“Every time something crazy goes down, people say, ‘oh, I bet it’s druggies’,” lamented Greta Bogart, president of Druggies Are Neighbors and Kin (DANK). “Hey, not every time,” she added, “I mean, like, not EVERY time. Sometimes it’s just some crazy dude . . . hearing voices, ya know, and like who’s gone off his meds and not even on drugs.”
And Greta cited examples of blatant discrimination against drug users. “Just try getting a job as a cop, when you’re a druggy. The military kicks you out if your piss has got some stank in it. Can’t get no work at the fire depot, postal office, airplane pilot places; no choo-choo train gonna hire you as an engineer, and you sure as hell ain’t gettin’ no job at a pharmacy. It’s really nuts. And it ain’t fair!”
Greta explained that the mission of DANK is to educate the public that druggies are your neighbors and kin. “Look around,” she advised, “One of two people you know is a druggy. We’re everywhere. Don’t be puttin’ us down and keepin’ us outta good jobs. Hell, we get those good jobs anyway, when we stay in the closet, pour salt in our piss tests, and shoot up right before job interviews. We come across cool and smooth as the crystal in meth, and we outperform all our sober co-workers when we get our fix. When we can make it into work, we outwork any worker.”
Yes, a war on druggy discrimination is being plotted and planned by druggies, even at this very moment. And when they’re able to get up off the floor and start crusading, we can expect an onslaught of PSAs with the major networks. And look forward to hearing this new slogan being repeated over and over, ad nauseam:
People live longer than dogs, so there’s a scale we use to equate a dog’s age with a human’s age. This scale varies with breed, size, and opinion, but as a general rule, you take the dog’s age and multiply by seven.
I use this concept to equate a woman’s age with a man’s and vice-versa. Women live about five years longer than men, on average. So I subtract five years from a woman’s age to find her age in man years. Or, I add five years to a man’s age to find his age in woman years.
I’m 62. But in woman years I’m 67. This is perfect, because my wife is 67. That makes us the same age, in equivalent years. I’ve always thought it was best for men to marry women older than them, so that they’ll both die at about the same time. It’s ridiculous that so many women spend so many long, lonely years in widowhood. Although I have known some women who’ve celebrated their years of widowhood, glad to be rid of the old bastard.
This scale is a win-win for everyone. Women like the idea of being younger, so they can use it to subtract five years from their age. Men, on the other hand, enjoy the accomplishment of having an older age. So they can use the scale and brag about being five years older than their birth age.
If you’re a woman, and someone asks your age, give them an age that is five years younger. You won’t be lying if you think to yourself, “In man years.” You must think this to yourself, so remember that or you will go to hell. Men, you can follow this example the other way.
I’m still on vacation, trying to survive the wilds of Yosemite National Park, which receives 5 million visitors per year and has all the modern amenities.
But today, April 30th, is Arbor Day, and I couldn’t resist pre-scheduling this post before decamping for the modern-day wilderness. It’s a famous poem penned in 1913, about the wonder and beauty of trees.
By the way, if you have trees in your yard, maybe you can relate to the sentiments of this poem. Trees are a lot of hard work, huh? You have to water the thirsty bastards. They shed leaves that require raking. Storms rip off branches, necessitating the use of chainsaws that can instantly slice through fingers and ankles. Wildfires torch them and then they, in turn, set your house ablaze. Or sometimes they just teeter over and crash right through the roof of your house.
Trees are dangerous, dirty, and cruel taskmasters. Humbug! Who needs them? Now that I’ve set the mood, here’s the famous poem:
by Joyce Killmore
I think that I shall never see, A plant as hideous as a tree.
A tree whose sucking mouth is prest, Against the foul Earth’s dirty breast.
A tree that stands in clods all day, The muck, the yuck, the slimy clay.
A tree that may in summer wear, Snakes and vultures in her hair.
Upon whose bosom crows have slain, A robin’s hatchlings, in the rain.
Poems are made by tools like me, But only a clod will plant a tree.
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