We do quite a few stories on medical marijuana. Not only is Cherokee County home to three dozen dispensaries and several grow operations, it has a number of citizens who benefit from the plant and its derivatives.
Thursday afternoon, I was reading through another Grant Crawford piece on the medicinal herb, and how to select the best strain to get the sought-after health benefit. That's when I came across a particular sentence, sandwiched casually into a paragraph: "For people who have a hard time holding down capsules or food, or men who have prostate issues, a THC suppository could be used."
That got my attention.
I knew about "flower." Everybody does, although back when I was in college near the end of the Stone Age, we called those green things "buds" or "tops." Every time I hear that part of the plant referred to as "flower," for some reason, I want to quip, "La-de-dah." Perhaps putting the bloom on the rose, so to speak, enhances the credibility of what has long been considered an illicit weed. At least, in this country, where busting poor pot smokers has become not a cottage industry, but a facet of the military-industrial complex.
Besides "flower," we now have "gummies," caramels, chocolates, vape pens with liquid, tinctures, and every other variety imaginable. I know about these because we write about them. But this was the first time I heard a suppository referenced. I'm not sure why I was surprised, because it makes sense. I've known cancer patients who have used opioid-based suppository products. Trying to keep a positive attitude, these friends joked about it.
I was aiming for a bit of levity, rather than selling a few newspapers, when I made the announcement on Facebook: "Hey, medical marijuana users. Did you know you can stick a THC suppository up your butt? Read Grant Davis Crawford's story in the Tahlequah Daily Press tomorrow for details."
That got several people's attention.
As I expected, I got hit with a couple of gentle chastisements from people who suspected I was poking fun at sick folks who poke suppositories where the sun don't shine, but one of the cancer survivors thought it was funny. He told me privately he was just as unaware of the "posterior pot plugs" as I was.
Then came the references to urban legends involving hamsters, toilet paper tubes and furniture peddlers. A former co-worker was the first to weigh in on that vein, with an oblique reference you'd have to be an Okie of at least 50 years to understand. A gif featuring a hamster quickly followed.
It reminded me of a story about a famous actor who was similarly accused. Back in 1990, when John Hoover was our sports editor, he had a crush on an equally famous model, who suddenly (and temporarily) married the actor. The morning after news of the nuptials broke, Hoov stormed into the newsroom, fuming: "I can't believe she married that... that... that GERBILER!" There followed a discussion about the specific subfamily of rodent involved – hamster or gerbil – and whether a tail, or absence thereof, would matter.
That's about as far I can go on this particular recollection; otherwise, several readers will go apoplectic before they can reach their heart pills. For that same reason, I was keeping tabs on the Facebook thread, while waiting to proof the front page. Meanwhile, my husband, who was flipping through the channels, paused on CNN when he realized Chris Cuomo was interviewing our congressman, who was defending Marjorie Taylor Greene (see disparaging editorial about her elsewhere on this page), while simultaneously denying he was defending her.
I felt my own temper starting to rise in tandem with those of the two men on screen. Chris Cuomo began to employ his "outside voice" to be heard over the "but-what-about-the-Democrats" lateral pass lobbed by the plumber-turned-politician. (In my circle, we refer to this as the "butter-emails syndrome.") Pretty soon, they were both shouting, which prompted my Chris to join the fray – except instead of the saucy word salad tossed by Cuomo, and the down-home Okie twang of his subject, my husband resorted to a two-word mantra – a cadence starting with the f-bomb followed by "YOU!" I was on deadline, and it was too much. He changed the channel before he had to slip on the blood pressure cuff, which was conveniently lying on the couch beside him.
As of this writing, I don't know whether my cryptic comment on Facebook will attract curious readers to Grant's feature – which really will be useful for anyone pondering a pot purchase. I think if I were the shopper, I'd select a source I could sink my teeth into. But, hey, if you prefer tackling the problem from the other end, all I can say is, "Bottoms up!"