Posts Tagged ‘drugs’

A UN investigator has called on the US to give back land to native Americans.

Yes, some awful crappy things were done to indians in the formative years of the US.  It was a raw deal.

When all the countries of the UN give back land that they obtained from people that had it before them, I will then consider the notion.  And I’ll still probably laugh myself silly.

Anaya said Rosebud is an example where returning land taken by the US government could improve a tribe’s fortunes as well as contribute to a “process of reconciliation”.

Process of reconciliation?

Yeah, sort of like how affirmative action was going to fix everything?

Last month, the US justice and interior departments announced a $1 billion settlement over nearly 56 million acres of Indian land held in trust by Washington but exploited by commercial interests for timber, farming, mining and other uses with little benefit to the tribes.

The attorney general, Eric Holder, said the settlement “fairly and honourably resolves historical grievances over the accounting and management of tribal trust funds, trust lands and other non-monetary trust resources that, for far too long, have been a source of conflict between Indian tribes and the United States.”

But Anaya said that was only a step in the right direction.

It’s always only a step in the right direction.

“These are important steps but we’re talking about mismanagement by the government of assets that were left to indigenous peoples,” he said. “This money for the insults on top of the injury. It’s not money for the initial problem itself, which is the taking of vast territories. This is very important and I think the administration should be commended for moving forward to settle these claims but there are these deeper issues that need to be addressed.”

READ:  Until someone gives us a sh*tload of land with lots and lots and lots of mineral resources and then pays us for all the wealth that was already taken out of the ground, we can’t move forward and begin to come together and heal.

Here’s a deeper issue to address… how about the rampant drug and alcohol problem?  I’ve found that once those get cleaned up life gets immeasurably easier.

Yeah, they’ve caught a lot of sh*tty deals.  It’s true.  At what point though, do you sober up, pick up your testicles that the cocker spaniel is gnawing on, cauterize them back on, and go out there and get a real job with real degees and take over your life.  Be a man.

Klamath region in Oregon gave lots of money to the Klamath Tribe and there were accounts of guys buying a new rig, getting liquored up, crashing the new rig, buying  a new truck that same night and crashing it, too, for a second DUI.

Repeat after me – giving a society free money when they have not fixed the problems that really drug their society down in the first place is a waste of money.

More on this later.

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The Update.

Did a half day at work today.  Hadn’t felt abysmally bad when I got up.  I opened my eyes and said “Whelp, I don’t want tuh get up, but I think I can.”

And so I did.  But after four awful hours I said “Whelp, I guess I is gonna go home.”

Whispering as I did… “One… one… one… one…” in a really tiny voice.

I got home and called the nurse at the pain clinic – she got back to me pretty quickly.  Turns out, in spite of what they say, not only can the pain increase but so can the numb and tingly stuff.  It’s really alarming when you start getting number extremities that also hurt.  She says that the stuff they shoot in there is pretty irritating stuff and can make all the stuff in there really inflamed.  Which is really really counter-intuitive to me because I thought it was supposed to be anti-inflammatory meds that they were injecting, but no, they are irritants themselves – like paint thinner, kerosene, and copier fluid.

So there.  That’s the day.

And, if you choose to read on in this post, be aware… I’m not in the best of moods.

Here’s a quick dose of humor to get you through it if you should decide to go on.  I’ve made lamb confit ravioli before and done garlic confit, but I’ve never ever heard of that kind of confit before.  Ever.  Nope.



While we’re talking about attention-whores, I thought we could skip over to this one for a bit because I’m (surprisingly) tired of talking about myself.

The butterball morbidly obese large woman person is 700lbs and wants to reach her goal of 1600lbs in her lifetime.

Despite warnings from her doctor that her bizarre experiment could kill her, Susanne insists she wants to break the record.

Dr Patrick Flite said: ‘She’s really playing Russian roulette with her life with this goal. There are well-documented complications that come with morbid obesity.

I would never encourage anyone to be doing what Susanne is doing.’

Dr Flite said Susanne’s medical checks showed no current problems, adding: ‘She’s capable of making her own decisions.  I don’t see any psychiatric problems or anything else wrong.’

Gee, I see two people with psychiatric problems right off the bat – the butterball and her doctor.

She can’t work because she’s so friggin’ fat.  Someone is paying for her food.  I have to ask “Why is someone paying for her to eat the amount of food daily that would feed eight to ten other people?”

‘I want to break the stigma that being fat is a bad thing,’ she said. ‘I remind other fat people that it is OK for them to be that way.

‘The message I want to get across is for people to accept others for who they are.’

Who said there shouldn’t be stigmaWhen did this silly rule get made up?

Sure as hell should be stigma when you actively pursue any kind of situation that requires someone else to support you.  Even if she’s independently wealthy (doubt it, look at her home, she’s no wealthier than I) then for cryin’ out loud, think of your kids, lady.

This is even worse than the couch-eater and the furniture polisher.


I know!  Let’s tax people, buy kits to test their kids for drugs, send them to parents who are interested, and make it look like a great service we’re offering to people who ought to be tracking their kids better than they are!  What a fantastic use of tax dollars!  Yay us!

Hell, people.  If I want to know if my kid is doing drugs I’ll buy a kit myself, not waste it on bureaucracy to do my job for me.

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Deputy Sheriff said to me
Tell me what you come here for, boy.
You better get your bags and flee.
You’re in trouble boy,
And now you’re heading into more.

– Simon and Garfunkel – Keep the Customer Satisfied

Except I wasn’t told to flee.  All of the rest?  Oh yes.

It all started a long long time ago in a Tennessee county far far away…

I had just spent a month on a business trip to a town in the south where we were taking data.  We packed up the last of our equipment and instruments and closed the door on the truck.  I slammed the enormous lock home and spun the dial the requisite three complete turns.

Our wheezing and sweaty boss said “You can stay at a hotel overnight and take off in the morning if you like.”

To myself and technician “Annoying Man™” the very thought of spending one more depressing evening in  a hotel had the same appeal as having your fingernails pulled out one by one.  We quickly assured the boss that we felt “100% better, energized, and ready to hit the road.  Sir.”

So we drove out of there as if the gates of Hell itself had been breached and the the demon hordes were pouring out in pursuit of our very souls.

Thus started what should have been an twelve hour trip back to Michigan.  Annoying Man™ took the first shift.

We got through Nashville, Tennessee, and were making good time.  Just before the border to Kentucky, Annoying Man™ saw a weigh station and then he had a thought that should never have been thought:  “Hey, I’m going to pull in and see how much we weigh on the scales.”

I immediately said “Nah, Annoying Man™, let’s just go on.  I want to go home and see my wife.”

“Nah,” said Annoying Man™, dismissing my , “It’ll only take a second.”

More ridiculous words have not been uttered since Custer’s pronouncement “Indians?  I don’t see any indians.”

“Oh, all right Annoying Man™, go ahead,” I sighed resignedly.

And pull in and stop on the scales we did.  The truck stopped on the scales and the scales settled in with a sigh.

Our weight flashed in at 11,300lbs.

“Ok, you can go…” said The Voice.  The Voice was behind some very dark glass which was rendered even more impenetrable by the waning sun – dusk was settling in with that ponderous and implacable chill that is so common in mid-October.

Annoying Man™ accelerated gently and we had moved about eight feet when The Voice said quickly “Wait.  Pull around back.”

I knew that tone of voice.  There is a particular timbre to a voice that will brook no argument.  It is the sound of a voice that does not feel pity, fear, or remorse.  That was the sound of my doom approaching.  The spectre in the shadows.  The whisper of dark wings in the night.

So we pulled around back.

I said to Annoying Man™:  “You ******* idiot!  You complete ******* moron, what the **** did you think you were ******* doing?  I told you NOT to ******* pull in, and WHAT did you do?  YOU HAD TO GO AND ******* PULL INTO THE ************* WEIGH STATION TO GET OUR ******* ******* WEIGHT ON A VEHICLE THAT DIDN’T  ******* HAVE TO ******** BE WEIGHED, YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER ******** MORON!”

Yes, I did say that, and worse, much worse.  It was not my finest hour and it CERTAINLY wasn’t the pinnacle of Annoying Man’s™ intellectual career, either.  I was exhausted, hungry, homesick, and irritable.  Imagine that please… I was irritable.

Out walked Buford T. Justice.  I swear to you it was HIM, only a bit taller.

We slid out of the small rental truck and got down.  I had lived this nightmare before and was dreading what was coming.

“Hello, boys” growled Sheriff Buford T. Justice.

“Hi Sheriff!” said  Annoying Man™.   I said nothing, feeling that once again discretion was the better part of valor and that if I opened my mouth I was likely to be in a world of trouble.

“What you boys carryin’?” asked Sheriff Buford T. Justice in his delightfully southern drawl.

“Data collection instruments for [redacted], Sheriff.”

The Sheriff sighed as if this were the last thing he needed to hear at the end of his strenuous day when he was responsible for so very much.   “Boys, I’m going to need to look through your VEE-hicle.”

I should note here that Annoying Man™ was in his early sixties and I was approximately 28 at the time.  The good Sheriff could not have been more than 45.  But, being the (relative) south, I guess lots of people are “boys” and “hon” and “son” and so on and so forth.  Anyway, for the duration we were “Boys.”

Sheriff Buford T. Justice asked if I would kindly open the driver’s side door and I complied.  He stopped just before looking inside the VEE-hicle and said “Boys, I need to know if you are carryin’ and kind of contraband – moonshine, cigarettes, marijuana, drugs – anything like that.”

“No Sir, Sheriff,” we said, “Nothing like that – just equipment.”

The good Sheriff sighed his world-weary sigh again, as if he couldn’t believe two stupider fools had been placed on this earth by God himself.

“Boys… ” he continued, “If I have to get dogs down here and they smell anything on this truck it and everything in it will become the property of the State of Tennessee, and you two will be spending time in our jail until we can get this straightened out.”

Seriously.  I swear this is what Sheriff Buford T. Justice said.   Somewhere, I heard a banjo strike up some chords in imitation of ‘Deliverance’.  Perhaps it was my fertile imagination, which was in overdrive.  I had heard things about the jails in these parts.  Things that involved images of a big mentally-challenged sweaty 360lb guy named Bubba who cries himself to sleep every night and needs a “teddy bear” who happens to be whoever his current cellmate is.

We denied any wrongdoing again and again we were given the Sheriff’s world-weary sigh which now sounded even wearier.

He rooted around on the floor of the driver’s side and came up with something between his thumb and forefinger and said with a sigh “Boysssss… this here is a marijuana seed.”

Now.  I could see very well that it was NOT a marijuana seed but in this sort of situation to tell the good Sheriff that it was NOT in fact a seed from the Cannabis sativa plant would be to invite a certain and swift demise.  Since I was not a total fool, I elected to remain silent.

“I need you to open the back of the truck,” drawled Sheriff Buford T. Justice.

I led him around to the back and pointed out the [redacted]-issue combination lock on the truck, very clearly stressing that this was government equipment.   He did not respond or reply other than to say “Open it up.”

I dialed the lock open and lifted the door.  We were greeted to stacks and stacks of large grey crates commonly used in our line of work.  All of them were labeled with big scientific words commonly associated with high-end research instruments – NOT labeled with things like “moonshine”, “contraband”, “cigarettes”, “marijuana”, etc.

He pointed at Annoying Man’s™ suitcase and said “Whose suitcase is this?”  Annoying Man™ claimed his property.

The Sheriff then pointed to my suitcase and said “Open ‘er up.”  I walked over and laid my suitcase out for his inspection.

Now, to this day I am not sure if he was just begging for me to cold-cock him from behind or if the good Sheriff Buford T. Justice actually was a mental cull, but he had his back to me as he rifled through my stuff.  I noted that within myself there was a certain darkness that was a terrible storm growing out of control and it was telling me “Just hit the ******, and lay him out flat.”

I realized that I was at a dangerous crossroads and walked about ten steps away and took many deep breaths.  From behind me I heard the Sheriff say “What’s this?”

I turned around to see that he had opened up my bottle of Tylenol PM™ and was holding some in his hand.  I said in a rather caustic voice (my fluffy-puppy voice seemed to have fled for the day) “Just what it says on the bottle.  SIR.”

Then, and I SHIT YOU NOT… he tried to unscrew the bottom off of my shaving cream.  For cryin’ out loud.  Did I really look so stupid as to use such an old hiding place?  I must have looked that stupid, and I don’t suppose it was too much of a stretch considering that Annoying Man™ had driven an over-GVW VEE-hicle onto Sheriff Buford T. Justice’s personal scales.

The Sheriff’s beady little rat eyes (he had finally taken off his Dirty Harry glasses now that it was completely dark) bored into my soul, or at least he thought they did.  He didn’t actually get to bore that deep because if he had he would have seen that I was kind of red-lining it right about then and that black malevolence dwelt there.

At some point he broke eye contact and he said “Well, I guess you boys are clean, but we ain’t done yet.  Come on inside, we have things to go over.”

We went inside where Sheriff Buford T. Justice proceeded to write Annoying Man™ roughly $550 worth of tickets because we didn’t have CDL’s, we didn’t have medical checkup papers, and because we didn’t have logbooks.  And oh yes, we could not forget the fact that we were over GVW by about 800lbs.

“Now, boys, I want you to do the following,” he said, looking at me, “I want you to drive because Annoying Man™ here is done for the day.   I want you to drive about ten miles down the road and stop off for the night.  I’ll be checking on you.  I want you to go into the gas station there and buy some logbooks and then stay in the hotel for the night.”

“Yes, SIR.” I said.  And we walked out of there, with me never once looking back.  Apparently Annoying Man™ didn’t either because he did not turn into a pillar of salt.

I started the truck and Annoying Man™ said “Lemur… I admit I might have made a mistake there… I feel really bad about…”

I then had many many things to say to Annoying Man™ – awful things that cannot bear repeating – as I drove down the road, leaving Sheriff Buford T. Justice at our backs, but certainly not out of our minds.

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Some of you have known that over a year ago I was rear-ended (rather, my car was hit, by another car, while I was in it, McGoo) and then hit the car in front of me. Since that time, my activities have been severely curtailed. Lots of painful procedures, chronic pain in general, couple trips to the hospital for out-of-control pain, etc.

To date, no doctor or specialist has come up with an answer that worked beyond about three weeks, and some didn’t work at all. In short, if someone offers to hit you, JUST SAY NO.

Several things happened after many, many visits to doctors:

  • You become disillusioned – Doctor’s don’t know everything. They don’t even know what they don’t know, so in that respect they are just like the rest of us
  • You become unwilling to hope – After just so many “treatments” that promise pain and little else that could be considered a tangible deliverable, you lower your expectations
  • You become bitter – Whatever did you do to merit this?
  • You feel isolated – unless you have been there, it’s hard to picture what the chronic pain sufferer is going through. It messes with your head in the most unimaginable ways, being restricted to just lying or sitting around while the rest of the world is outside talking with each other, getting things done, going places, etc. Doctors hear the words but cannot feel the emotions
  • You feel guilty – as if it were your fault you were not better. Some doctors help foster this subconsciously
  • You get tired – Ground down by trying to live a normal life, hold down a job, fulfill familial obligations, meet appointments, make up lost time at work, and deal with pain throughout

Today, I have an appointment at 1pm with (drum roll, please)… an acupuncturist.
This will be a good test because even though I am hopeful, I don’t actually believe in acupuncture any more than I believe in brain-tumor healing performed by practitioners of the chiropractic arts. (yes, I know “oh ye of little faith”)

If it can work in SPITE of my skepticism, then it passes a critical test and after 3000 years one billion Chinese folks can all breathe a collective sigh of relief as their methods are validated by your ever-so-humble gweilo.

Wish me luck. I’m sure you’ll be on pins and needles (as I am soon to be) to find out the results.

– LK


The Puncture Chronicles – a Subdermal Saga

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