A DOPEY SCHEME GONE TO POT

Men Of The Deeps

"We're Canada's forgotten men," gripes Ernie, reporting for day shift at
Zippadeedoodah Mines, the government's underground marijuana grow-op in Flin
Flon, Man. "Even Rita MacNeil doesn't know we're down here. We're pot
miners."

"You think too much," warns his pot mole pal, Bert. "It's a job, eh?
Like The Rock says, 'Know your role.' "

"But marijuana's a weed!" Ernie argues.

"It grows anywhere! Sprinkle a few seeds on the ground, you got pot!
Why are we 10 storeys underground in an abandoned copper mine?
Creating artificial sunlight! To grow bad medicinal pot for less than
600 people! It's totally whacked!"

"Look," says Bert. "This is your federal government at work. Every
program must be as complicated as possible. We've got a five-year
contract to grow pot underground. We got three years to go. Cash your
pay cheque. Don't screw it up."

"But it's bad pot!"

"Doesn't matter," says Bert. "There is a need, there is a program.
Your government has responded. Sure, we're growing shwag. You think
the gun registry program works? How about the parole board? Hey, have
you seen the babe who's our new director of spritz? She sure fills out
a lab suit."

"This ridiculous cave grow-op costs millions," Ernie sputters. "And
the 582 Canadians with permission to use our product say it sucks.
They could do better on the street. They could grow their own."

"Need I remind you the benefits of medical marijuana have not been
proven?" Bert says. "That's why a caring government underwrites every
application for studies, exploration, research. An entire medical
industry counts on those grants."

"And every study comes back the same! Results inconclusive!"

"Exactly!" smiles Bert, who flunked poli-sci. "If results came back
positive or negative, there wouldn't be many more studies, would there?"

"So it's a circle game."

"Money for medical science. Money for marijuana mines. Problem noted.
Program up and running. Is everybody happy? Everybody shut up."

"But we're not even necessary!" fumes Ernie. "Anybody who can find
another source of pot to alleviate their real or imagined pain does!
We're spending a fortune to grow weed people don't want."

"Yadda, yadda, yadda. Just shut up."

"Our first batch was so bad, the feds burned it. Even now, cave weed
tests low for THC, marijuana's active ingredient. It's irradiated. And
there are traces of arsenic and lead in our crop ..."

"Hey, we're in an abandoned copper mine," says Ernie. "Go
figure."

"And all this for 582 people! It's nuts!"

"You brown-baggin' it today or hittin' the lunchroom?" asks Ernie.
"Thursday is Cheese & Macaroni Day. De-lish."

"I don't get satisfaction from my job down here," Bert bitches. "I'm
missin' a whole world up on top. Red light cameras. Mike Wallace bein'
busted. Amber Frey's secret love life. And what about the balance of
powers in Confederation? Feds or provinces? Jeez, I'm so out of the
loop."

"You notice this pot mine's not in the paper, don't ya?"

"What are you saying?"

"It's off the public burner," grins Ernie. "Sure, everything you're
sayin' is true. Growin' weed in caves is a joke. Another of Ottawa's
screwy ideas, badly executed. But there are new lousy ideas on the
table. People can't bitch forever about everything, right?"

"The pot mine is old news."

"Pal," says Ernie, "the papers could bitch daily about the pot mine,
the gun registry for the next decade. People would quit reading. You
think anything would change? Voters got the thought retention of tree
toads. They want new absurdity."

"So we're doomed to keep growin' pot nobody wants?"

"Five-year contract, little buddy. Do not rock the boat. Hey, some of
the pot miner guys are talkin' about forming a chorus. Gettin' those
little hats with lights on 'em like Rita's backup singers. Take your
mind off what we're doin', just like those folks up on top. You up for
that, bro?"

"Can we sing Puff the Tragic Dragon? Sure. Count me in."