Howdy, folks. I know it’s been awhile, but I’ve been awful busy. This Texan has been in a real-live (seemingly) Alamo—over pot, no less. Except this time, our side’s got plenty of big guns and ammo and just as much gumption.
In our battle against local pot growers bringing commercial cannabis into our little county via the ballot, we’ve more than held our own. But for the duration of this war (three more weeks), we’ve still got work to do.
But we just came away victorious in a debate put on by a local nonpartisan yet partisan group. We did real good. Not bad for a few old retirees who were just gittin’ started a year ago. In case, you don’t know—I’m our Webmaster, social media admin, and marketing/opinion writer.
Now, look at us. We got a website, yard signs, banners, brochures and over a thousand like-minded fellow voters.
Wicked words this way come
Our group is a lean, mean fightin’ machine, but we need all the armor we can get. Seems like every day we get ambushed by the silliest of accusations. The latest is that we signed up a bunch of dead people in the 1,000-strong names list we published in the local paper.
During the other side’s social media hissy fit, they tell each other strongly that these dead people oughta complain to the county and to the paper. Somethin’s gotta be done, they say. Dang … a year ago, things were a lot more friendly.
No more. In the months since I got into this fight over whether to allow a bunch of growers to write our pot laws for us, things have taken some nasty turns.
The growers and those in their posse call me: a liar, transplant, a lonely man with a computer, impotent, idiot, stupid, ignorant, a horrible person, a propagandist, a f…ing moron, a parasite, a sneaky rat, a media whore, a crybaby loser, a stupid sh*t, a cretin, a manipulator, deceitful, a public nuisance, a menace to the community, a hypocrite, a fraud, and dangerous. Period.
These are pretty good, but my favorite’s gotta be this:
I’m a gaslighter.
I had to look that one up. As gaslighter is a rascal who uses repetitive lies to get people to doubt their own reality. It’s like mind control. Evidently, dictators and psychopaths use it to control others.
According to my Facebook enemies, when I’m not on my Xbox (got an Xbox One, by the way), I’m mind-controlling a bunch of old folks to oppose the growers makin’ it legal to grow up to a million pounds of pot every year. That’s enough bud to supply each county voter with up to 88 pounds.
And it’s not like all that weed will stay here. These growers want to use our land to grow it and then sell most of it out of county. California produces seven to ten times as much as it can use anyhow.
And the weird thing about everything is this: The majority of the abuse is coming from local women. Now, I get that Facebookers are primarily ladies, but the ladies I’m used to—the ones in God’s Country—act a little more ladylike.
Ahab’s after me.
There’s one in particular who really has it out for me. I’m like her White Whale and she’s my Captain Ahab. She even comes to this blog to try to dig up some dirt on me, I guess. Then she posts my posts on the local growers’ Facebook group page.
Shoot, woman—keep ‘er comin’—there’s nuthin’ like free air time and more exposure. I guess it goes to show you that obsession ain’t all that strategic.
If this spitfire wants to shut me down and save the community from the menace I’ve become, sharing my Texas wisdom with her gang of growers ain’t the best way to go about it.
Not only is she a mean one, she treats my opposition to her group’s goals as a personal attack. Instead of just chalking it up to strong disagreement, it’s like she’d like to tan my hide in the public square and run me outta Dodge.
Everything’s a conspiracy to this woman. She recently accused a fella on our side of being a paid operative. Heck, I don’t even get paid. If he’s on the take, where’s mine?
She even questioned his county credentials by lining ’em up next to hers. When push came to shove, it turns out his family’s been in these parts since the 1880s. He beats hers by 40 years.
I’m a good guy. Ask my posse.
C’mon, now, lady—as the song goes—there ain’t no good guy, there ain’t no bad guy. There’s only you and me and we just disagree. Ooh, Ooh, OOH, oh, oh, OH.
Just because I don’t agree that cannabis cures EVERYTHING doesn’t mean I’m a liar and gaslighter. My strong opinions and disagreements with you and yours over pot, doesn’t mean you gotta be so ugly. And the only gaslighting I ever done was in high school with a lighter and a belly full of beans.
Just relax. Once this whole crazy cannabis thing is done and decided, we’ll still be neighbors . Heck, we’ll see each other at the Safeway, at county fairs, while getting gas, and maybe even at softball games—if the wife and I ever get around to having a young-un—or ten.
Well, anyways, that’s all I got. The celebrated cannabis kerfuffle in my little ‘ol California county is about to be decided by us voters … for now.
It’s been a big, bruisin’ battle. Here’s hopin’ it won’t turn into an all-out weed war.