POTHEADS, DAMNED POTHEADS

South African forensic scientists have found traces of cannabis in clay pipes excavated from Shakespeare's garden. This will no doubt fuel certain people in their insistence that marijuana be legalized. "Surely if so great a man as the author of A Midsummer Night's Dream and Measure for Measure derived inspiration from weed", they will say, "it proves that cannabis is a great good that should not be withheld from mankind".

Which, of course, is complete horsepucky.

For validation of my assertion, have a conversation sometime with a pot-head. There is an entire tribe of them along Market Street, and not a genius in the bunch.

The fact that a variety of substances were smoked in Europe centuries ago does not justify their use now, and it should be noted that coca-leaf was also infumed.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge was addicted to opium. More than enough has been written about the deleterious effects of that drug that I need not add one iota to the discourse; the fame of the addict does not detract from the loathsome evil of his habits.


The death sentence for abusers of illegal substances does seem a little harsh. But not entirely berserk. Most consumers of "medical marijuana" are insufferable, and their therapy does not cure them of that condition.

Even caffeine, nicotine, and highly refined sugar are more than most people can handle.



America's war on drugs may indeed by a tragedy of errors, but most rational people would surely support regular public whipping for abusers.
Perhaps coupled with festivals like Outside Lands, and with music by The Grateful Dead in the background.

I for one would heartily approve, and would under those circumstances consider the gathering of so large a number of stoners in one place worthwhile.

I can, in fact, suggest a number of persons to pillory.

Their frequent fractured logic wrote them on my list.

No, I did not seek them out; I prefer to avoid them.


AFTERWORD

Not all of Shakespeare's plays are worth reading. The two mentioned above are laboured and puerile, and his most notorious work, Romeo and Juliet, tells a remarkably dreary tale about an infatuated idiot, a randy thirteen year old virgin with shit for brains, a meddlesome priest, and a drug-induced stupor that goes horribly wrong. It is quite unbearable.

Yes, he wrote some boffo stuff. But he also wrote crap.


The less said about Coleridge, the better.



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