I Must Ask You To Give The Old Lady Her Weed Back

27 Mar

How are you, sir – it’s good of you to meet me at my favorite bar in the blogosphere, informally and fictionally, so as not to misinterpret what I have to tell you as a baseless, slanderous accusation of a serious crime.  I don’t think that would be ethical of me, though it would sure be ironic, sir, for you to lecture me about ethics.

Now listen, I’ve called you here because I just read this article – Woman makes claim for lost marijuana shipment – which is about your client Elvy Musikka, 71, of Eugene, Oregon.  As you know, she’s one of four remaining patients in America who is getting free, government-grown, super-powerful marijuana as part of a federal program from the eighties called the Compassionate Use Protocol.

She has glaucoma, and right out of a Harold and Kumar movie, it turns out that there are really government labs where they grow Super Weed.  Ms. Musikka has been ordered – ordered, mind you – to smoke ten joints of Free Government Super Weed every single day, so she goes down to Florida every six months or so and picks up six tin cartons containing 300 pre-rolled Super Joints apiece.

Legal.  As.  Hell.  You know it and I know it, and so does the government.  I can see why they scaled the program back, of course – this looks like the sort of program that an unethical person might take advantage of.  For example, one might attempt to qualify for the free Super Weed in order to avail oneself of the recreational features of the crop, as opposed to the documented medical uses.

I know, it’s a crazy world – you can’t trust a soul, can you?

So anyway, this last time Ms. Musikka flew down there – and the stuff is apparently so documented and legal that she can rock right on through airport security with it, probably mouthing off the whole time, I know I would – and when she got there, they said the shipment was delayed.

No problem, she said.  I’ll just sign this document and that will allow my attorney to take possession of the nearly two thousand pre-rolled Super Joints, because he has agreed to totally mail them to me.

And then I see from the article that the Post Office “lost” the shipment.  It never arrived.  And you’re pretty outraged, except I also see that the reason they lost the shipment was that you put the wrong zip code on the package.  By one digit, you specify for some reason.

Come on now – fictionally, between you and me.  You’re telling me you were putting that sort of package in the mail and you didn’t triple check the address?

And then later you’re characterizing the situation like this:

“I find it fascinating that the post office can tell me because of their tracking that it was misrouted and can acknowledge that it went to the wrong place, but they can’t tell me what happened to it after that,” Kent told CNN. “It’s astounding.”

Cause see, it was misrouted because you labelled it wrong.  It went to the right place, my friend.  You just put the wrong place on the packing slip.

So as an attorney, I find it fascinating that you find it fascinating that the postal service sent the package to the post office your label indicated they should, and that now you’re baffled as to how this could have happened.  I find that very fascinating indeed.

I have to tell you, my friend.  It sure sounds like you shipped something else of approximately equal weight, intentionally to the wrong post office, so that you could document a claim and establish plausible deniability, while handily pocketing 1800 Super Joints.

It does seem to me that as an attorney, you’re supposed to be trained to execute complicated legal documents, file court cases and lawsuits, negotiate deals with Satan, etc.  And so the screw-up on the zip code really stands out to me as either comically, unbelievably careless or suspiciously, motive-clear-as-day intentional.

I’ll bet the woman who gets free Super Weed from the government gets her joints replaced, either by an insurance company or the Postal Service or the same government lab which grows it.  And I’ll bet that’s a big part of what anyone’s rationalization might be, for going ahead and stealing them.

But I’ll also bet it takes a little while for the replacements to come in.  Just a few weeks maybe.

And so again, I want to be clear, we’re not really sitting in a bar and I’m not really talking to you and all of this is fictional or satirical or whatever it needs to be.  I know that you didn’t really steal thousands of dollars worth of Uncle Sam Special from a little old lady with glaucoma.  I’m totally joking and I think that’s “obvious” to anyone.

But just in case you know anyone else who fits the shoe I just described, maybe let them know that we all understand yoinking the Super Weed.  Attorneys roll how attorneys roll, and who are we to judge you folks?  You’re professionals.

Just send Ms.Musikka a couple hundred of them.  She’s used to ten a day, for crying out loud, and her eyeballs hurt.  Just knock a couple hundred off the top and send them to her, get her through til The Man comes ’round.

If you need help filling out the packing slip, just ask the friendly postal worker behind the counter.  Perhaps you could just put Ms. Musikka on the phone so she can tell them the address personally – zip codes are tricky, but they aren’t anything to ballpark.  Much like a phone number, if you get it wrong by “one digit(!)” then the whole thing’s wrong.

Nobody goes, oh, well that’s Charlie’s Super Weed client, she lives in Oregon, not California.

No, sir.  That’s not how it works.  A very large number of people mail packages to a very large number of places every single day, and the postal service relies upon the information the sender puts on the package.  It’s not motherscratching rocket science, counsellor.

Just give the phone and the joints to the postal worker and then – well, crap.  Those are stolen Super Joints now, so it’s probably not legal to send them through the mail anymore is it?

Oh well.  You’re the attorney.  You figure that part out, and you don’t have to admit anything or yell at me or make a scene.  Just fictionally send the old lady a chunk of her fictional weed back, pretty please.

Now I’m out of here.  These beers are on you.

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Posted by on March 27, 2011 in Uncategorized


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