Medical Miracle

Arizona’s first medical marijuana clinic opened for business this week.  There was a story on the noon news that reported on the booming business the clinic was doing, saying that it had filled more than 50 prescriptions before the morning was over.  Needless to say, Mom was mystified by the whole thing.

“I don’t understand how all those young looking men are getting marijuana from that store,” she exclaimed when I brought in her lunchtime Slim Fast and caramel flavored rice cakes.

“They have a prescription,” I said, setting down her food.

“For what?” she asked.  “It isn’t like its medicine.  It’s dope.  They’re just dopers.”

“Not necessarily.  In Arizona, if you have a prescription its medicine and if you don’t, then its dope.”

“Well that’s just stupid.  Why would those young men need marijuana anyway?  And who would write them a prescription?”

“If they have back pain or anxiety or any number of ailments they could get a prescription.  It’s used to treat cancer patients too,” I explained.

“That’s crazy.  Since when can dope cure cancer?  If that were true then hundreds of people would be dope fiends, maybe thousands.  They’d be running around doped up all the time,” she said with a derisive harrumph.

“It doesn’t cure anything, Mom.  It just helps with the pain,” I said as I left the room.

“Well so does a martini but you don’t see any martini clinics opening up around town, do you?” she yelled after me.

“Sure you do,” I shouted from the hall.  “They’re called bars.”

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