EPIPHANY OF THE DAY

 TRAUMA

This week I realized that being called a “fenderhead” by a Master Chief Bosun’s Mate won’t qualify me for a handicapped parking sticker. I’ll learn to live with it.

What it does qualify me for is pot, weed, Mary Jane, herb, grass, … you know, marijuana. Isn’t that something?

It works this way. They have this modern miracle called “medical marijuana.” If a doc prescribes it, you can get it, and plenty of it. Legal? What you talking about? Just check out the traffic jam down at the dispensary.

Then they have this thing called post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). It is a serious disorder and deserves serious consideration. It appears frequently in veterans. In the Civil War, it was called “soldier’s heart.” In WWI, “shell shock.” In WW II, “battle fatigue.” All those terms signify participation in combat. Now they just call it “PTSD.”

As I say, it deserves recognition and those suffering from it deserve solace, succor, and treatment. Ultra-woke and don’t feel safe with my talking about it? Bite me.

Here’s the catch. It’s a self-diagnosed ailment. It applies equally to the grunts who survived the Battle of the Ia Drang Valley and the airmen who spent their enlistment an Homestead Air Force Base in Miami-Dade County, Florida.

Wonder what ailment qualifies you for the legal enhancement?

All I would have to do is say I have it. “Gee Doc, I wake up in a sweat with “Fenderhead” pounding in my brain.”

Bingo. The only problem is that I think smoking pot is the silliest thing since disco music.

I could get it but don’t think I should sell it. I could barter it for things like lawn mowing, but I’ve seen the result of work done by kids that probably had a toke or two.

Maybe I should just continue to overcome my anxieties by keeping up with the daily news.

Uh, don’t think so. I might really get it.