Normally I don't take positions on issues because that requires thinking about issues, and frankly my time is better spent binge watching House of Cards.
But given that Maryland's General Assembly is weighing several pot bills, I feel compelled to speak out.
I urge lawmakers not to legalize or decriminalize marijuana, which, as we now know, is a gateway drug to Red Bull or any number of energy drinks. But that's not why I oppose pot.
They say it takes 1.2 million muscles to frown but only four muscles to smile. Well, some of us are proud of our 1.2 million muscles; that's a lot of exercise and dedication. My fear is that pot will insidiously attack that particular muscle group and before I know it, I'll be relaxed.
And relaxation, as we now know, leads to smiling, which leads to happiness, which leads to living longer, which leads to more thinking, which leads to more thinking about issues, which leads to unhappiness, which leads to frowning.
That, my fellow Marylanders, is the danger of pot.
Still don't believe me?
Let me tell you a little story about a Baby Boomer who smoked pot three times (I'll wait until that preposterously low number sinks in). Each incident was more harrowing, more frightening than the next:
Early 1983:
Under the cloak of Daylight Savings time, the Baby Boomer secures pot (quality and origin unknown) from a supplier resembling one of those Duck Dynasty dudes. The transaction is a nervous affair. The young man grossly overpays for he is certain he'll be captured by the FBI and shipped to a Turkish prison where cable TV is spotty at best.
Safely locked in his apartment bathroom, the young man attempts to roll his first joint. The work does not go well. For sealing purposes, he considers using Krazy Glue before remembering this, too, is a gateway drug and will only compound his Turkish prison sentence.
Somehow, a joint is fashioned. He lights the twisty end. He attempts a puff. The puffing does not go well. He tries again until he finally inhales. He is smoking pot. Alone. In front of his bathroom mirror. It is not relaxing.
Later to friends, he would liken the sensation to inhaling the bottom-dwelling food scraps found in any kitchen disposal.
Middle 1983:
He has someone ("a friend") pay for the pot to avoid even a hint of extradition to a foreign prison. His friend proves to be a talented buyer, roller and puffer.
Safely locked in the same Orlando apartment, both young man smoke pot. As the soothing sounds of Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love" shred their eardrums, a Monopoly board somehow materializes. It is brought out to the pool, where both of them commence a game of floating Monopoly aboard leaky beach rafts. Hilarity ensues over the yellow Monopoly property "Marvin Gardens." The name is the funniest thing ever said or heard. They call each other Marvin for the remainder of the experience.
They judge the time as either 2:00 in the morning or 2:00 in the afternoon.
In any case, it's a very relaxing time.
Late 1983:
In his last brush with the demon weed, the Baby Boomer finds himself in possession of pre-rolled and pre-paid "marijuana cigarettes." This time, he fears no Turkish prison. It is an extremely relaxing evening -- until a new fear emerges. Could there be a link between pot and relaxation? If so, he could easily develop a fondness for pot bordering on a lifelong romance.
But what happens if one morning he wakes up and Marvin Gardens isn't funny anymore?