Thanks to Senator Orrin Hatch, that smack-shootin’ devil dog rebel, the dummies at the dumb DEA have been cowed into rethinking, or at least rescheduling, their dumb ban on the highly useful herbal painkiller kratom.
Hatch’s Dear Colleagues letter, asking the rest of Congress to rein in the addled agency (sometimes I think they’re taking all of the drugs they confiscate), was the final and largest swing in the month-long fight to at least give the public and lawmakers a chance to protest this stupidity.
Of course, I’m really happy, particularly for the chronic pain sufferers who will get a few more months of being able to function without having to pummel their livers with Vicodin. I’m also happy for the people who won’t get mugged by all the heroin addicts who were using kratom to stay clean. This may well include me.
However, I am also really kicking myself for using up all that nice kratom soap that I had in a single week. That stuff is really good for your skin, and your skin can’t absorb all the antioxidants in one week of intensive scrubbing. But you can’t be too paranoid about the DEA; before I found out the ban had been postponed, I had considered cleaning out the soap dish I was keeping the kratom soap in just in case they already have drug dogs trained on the stuff. Who knows how many molecules of mitragynine it takes to land in jail? The green goo in the dish was VISIBLE.
Do I sound paranoid? You’d be paranoid too if you’d lived through a drug raid. When I was 21, the police in Madison, WI spent ten grand in taxpayer dollars drug-busting the punk house I lived in. Too bad they were nine months too late to catch the dealer. We didn’t know how much pot that Mafia kid in the upstairs bedroom was selling, and we were shocked to find out; the reason we kicked him out was because he kept throwing his girlfriend at the wall so hard he put holes in the plaster. We wanted at least some of our security deposit back…
Since we were all poor, only one person in the house was found with any drugs at all: the obnoxious, whining skeeve who was on SSI had a couple of grams of pot, and he had his rich parents hire him a lawyer (long story; he’s the person who made me hate welfare). The rest of us got to, for no reason whatsoever, face the wrath of a bunch of humiliated drug cops who would have to go back to their bosses with a tiny rumpled baggie of marijuana.
After waking me up from a drunken slumber on the downstairs couch at gunpoint (white privilege caused me to keep my wits about me, figure out that this was not a dream, and actually put my hands up within about a half-second of their shoving the gun in my drowsy face), the cops did everything they could to exorcise the demons of their failure at our expense. After they’d plastic-handcuffed everybody and herded us into the kitchen, we got to listen as they tore our house and all of our possessions apart.
The worst part was hearing my guinea pig screaming overhead. From what I could hear, they seemed to have dumped him out of his cage and were letting the drug dog chase him around. WHILE THEY LAUGHED. They threw everything in my bedroom into the center of the room (I swear it was out of sheer spite and bitterness at not having found any drugs to pin on me), and when the ordeal was finally over, the poor guinea pig spent days cowering under the mess in the center of the floor, refusing to come out. I could hardly blame him.
Meanwhile, we were all carted off to spend the day in jail while they went over everything with a fine-toothed comb. I used my phone call to call my boss; I was scheduled to work that day. They told me jail was a very bad excuse, and I was fired.
But the Madison drug cops didn’t just cost me my livelihood; they eventually cost me my home and ruined my credit. After the raid, everybody who did occasionally use drugs was spooked, and they began to move out, not bothering to find subletters or tell us where they were going. The remaining three people didn’t have the money to put together rent payments between us, so we wound up evicted and homeless. The final cherry on the shit sundae was placed on top by the landlord: the cops had done so much damage to the structure of the beautiful old house that he sued ME for damages.
Granted, he was a nice old guy, and I felt terrible that the place was ruined, as it was really well-kempt when we moved in. And we weren’t completely innocent: once the cops destroyed the place, my stupider roommates thought “oh well, it’s already wrecked, so I might as well spray paint the walls.” But I couldn’t even begin to pay up on the lawsuit, so I went into my twenties with the credit rating of a derelict.
So sue me. When and if the ban goes through, I’m going to OCD that soap dish till it shines like the top of the Empire State Building.