Wishing I Were Stoned

No. Really. Do you ever wished you were stoned? I'm not talking a bit buzzed. I'm talkin' blasted. Totally toasted. Blot-so. Weeded out. I'm talkin', "Dude, what the hell was that?"

Not that being on drugs is a good idea, but it would sure help explain things. Like the entire Bush Administration. I mean, wouldn't it be nice to say, "Dude. That must be some pretty nasty stuff I've been smoking." And then you could just quit and it would all go away. "Wow! I'm never doing that again!"

Or the other day when I was driving through Republic and I saw a local policeman in his patrol car wearing a cowboy hat. It wasn't the patrol car wearing the cowboy hat, but the policeman, although a patrol car in a cowboy hat wouldn't've been that much more bizarre. "No thanks. No more for me."

Or the time outside of Niangua when I saw a sheriff with a shotgun and mirrored glasses watching over a road gang that was dressed in stripped outfits. "I promise, man, I'm gonna quit."

Or my boss.

Or you...