NOT MUCH DANGER OF ME BECOMING FARMER BONG

Apparently every single house in the city is now a marijuana grow-op
except mine. Every time I read the paper or watch the news, Toronto's
finest are raiding another house and bagging and hauling away dozens
of pot plants. Forget Tupperware, Mary Kay or Amway -- everyone but me
seems to be getting in on Toronto's fastest-growing home-based business.

It's not because I don't know how to do it. Each news report gives a
detailed description of how to set up a grow-op, complete with
diagrams. I don't know anything useful like how to change a tire, but
police press conferences have taught me how to splice into the
electric grid, set up sprinklers and wire the overhead lights.
Compared to running a legitimate home-based business, it's a snap. No
payroll deductions, quarterly tax instalments or worrying if an
expense is going to be disallowed at tax time. There's a lot less
paperwork, plus you don't need to bother keeping your word-processing
skills up to date.

So what's keeping me from becoming Farmer Bong? Well, first of all
there's that whole going-to-jail thing. Since this is Canada, there is
an outside chance that if you are a major drug producer you could go
to prison. My delicate constitution couldn't take all that starchy
food, lifting weights or being given back as change for a carton of
smokes.

The other problem is I can't grow anything. Being one of my
houseplants is like being sent to a Texas prison for a date with ol'
Sparky -- there's no chance of the Governor calling. I think we
single-handedly bankrupted one of those garden-supply stores that had
a "your plant will live a year or we replace it free" guarantee. One
look at the health of our yard should be more than enough to convince
any cop on patrol the people inside have nothing to do with reefer
madness.

If the size of our hydro bill is anything to go by, I'm surprised we
haven't already had a visit from the local constabulary. Looking at
it, we either have 100 potted plants growing in the basement or a
washing machine going full tilt trying to keep up with one
three-year-old boy who likes chocolate pudding a lot.

I suppose the other reason I'd make a lousy urban dope farmer is my
sense of priorities. If we had any spare space in the house, it would
first go toward a bigger bathroom. You can talk about the relaxing
qualities of marijuana all you like, but if you bump your knee on the
sink every time you get out of the tub, I know what's going to get the
extra space.

Like any business, you have to be committed to your product, and I'm
afraid I've just never understood the appeal of smoking marijuana.
Personally, I've always preferred good cigar. I suppose the big
difference is smoking dope in public is more socially acceptable.