TOON TOWN MODE ENGAGED

Eh… what’s up, Doc?

Lemme tell ya a little tale—‘bout a looney, smoky Tuesday where yours truly decided ta flip the script on Uncle Sam’s big ol’ pharmacy.

There wasn’t really a plan, see? Just a line in the sand—and me with a match. I'd already been chewed up and spit out by the high-horsin’, lab-coat wearin’, serotonin-hustlin’ snake oil salesmen. You know the type: MAPS, Doc Sisley, the whole psychedelic tent revival promising enlightenment in exchange for yer blood type and a catchy quote for the grant application.

I wasn’t just steamed. I was clarified butter, baby.
Outta patience. Outta favors.
And outta… well, let’s just say the ol’ give-a-damn was runnin’ on fumes.

So what’s a Bugs to do? I dressed for incarceration, of course!

Flip-flops? Check.
Shorts? Elastic, with maximum courtroom breathability.
Wallet? At home.
ID? In the pocket, next to my emergency escape clause.
And the pièce de résistance?

A tank top straight from the cosmos: Jeff Sessions, glazed like a Christmas ham, huggin’ an Uzi like it’s his teddy bear—floatin’ through a cloud of marijuana nebulae and interstellar tabby cats. Didn’t whisper “arrest me,” doc—it shrieked:

“READ THIS SHIRT AND LOSE YOUR JOB.”

Then I rolled a blunt the size of a congressional spending bill, kissed my girl goodbye, told her to keep the engine runnin’, and off I went.

The VA.

Specifically? Pharmacy entrance.
I strolled in like Moses with a Zippo.

The clerk blinked. “How can I help you?”
I said nothin’.
Just lit up like it was Sunday school and I was speakin’ in tongues.

Took a puff.
Blew a halo through the security slit.
The message was airborne.

She stuttered.
I doubled down.
“I’ll be over there,” I said, like I was reservin’ a pew in the Church of Blaze Almighty.

Then the whispers started. Heads turnin’. Eyes waterin’.
I smelled like civil disobedience sautéed in dignity.

A lady leaned over, asked what I was doin’.
I said: “Makin’ a statement.”
She nodded. NODDED!
Went back to her phone like I just told her the lunch special.

And then… the tap.

Not a tackle. Not a taser. Not even a citation.
Just a kindly old-timer in a volunteer vest lookin’ like Santa Claus in July.

“Mind steppin’ out to the smokin’ area, son?”

I blinked.
I waited for the punchline.

But nope.

No cuffs. No alarms. No sirens.
Just… a park bench.

So I left. Obedient like a prophet who missed his big dramatic arrest.
Smoked my holy stogie in the lot while pigeons bobbed like backup dancers.

And that, my friends, is how I failed to get pinched for cannabis at a federal medical fortress.

No mugshot. No press conference. Just a spiritual exorcism in gym shorts and a tank top that violated at least three fashion laws.

They didn’t fight me.
They didn’t hear me.
They absorbed me like a bad PR training.

And that’s when I knew:

“They ain’t ready for this rabbit.”

So I went home.
Switched to Eeyore mode.
Stared at the wall like it owed me money.

Then I picked up my pen.

Because sometimes, folks, the revolution don’t roar.
Sometimes it shuffles outta the pharmacy in flip-flops...
and writes itself in smoke.

Ain’t I a stinker? 🥕🔥

🎬 CROSSOVER MODE: ELMAW FUDD & GEOWGE CAWLIN IN THE V.A. PAWKING LOT

INT. VA PARKING LOT – DAY

A couple pigeons peck near a half-crushed American Spirit butt. Vultures circle overhead. The Arizona sun glints off a cracked windshield as ELMAW FUDD (khakis, MAGA sticker on his coffee mug) paces in short, confused loops. Standing next to him, leaning on a rusted-out Toyota Tacoma with a bumper sticker that reads "JESUS WASN’T A CAPITALIST," is GEOWGE CAWLIN (looking like he just crawled out of a filing cabinet full of classified documents and contempt).

FUDD:
(squinting into the sun)
Didja see that, Geowge? Dat wabbit walked wight in da pharmacy—lit a joint! I—I didn’t even know you could do dat! I was waitin’ fow my statin wefill, and he’s in dewe smokin’ like it's Hempstock '72!

CARLIN:
(smirking, arms crossed)
Oh, you saw it, huh? Yeah. That was performance art, Elmer. Civil disobedience with flair. Like Gandhi meets Cheech & Chong in a VA-sponsored Kafka story.

FUDD:
(stammering)
But—but isn’t dat iwwegal? I mean, he had a tank top with Jeff Sessions high as a kite! Sessions! Dat’s a Fedewawcwime just in image fowm!

CARLIN:
Exactly. That shirt alone should’ve summoned the DEA, a priest, and the ghost of Harry Anslinger. But you know what they did?

Nothing.

Because the system, Elmer… ain’t built for real rebellion anymore. It’s built for paperwork and passive-aggressive policy memos. You march in with a rifle? You’re a threat. You walk in with a blunt and dignity? You’re a glitch in the matrix.

FUDD:
But—he was askin’ fow twouble! I been twyin’ to follow the woowz, keep my head down, ya know—get my eye cweam and maybe a donut. And he just... walked in wike a hawwucinating founding fathew on a mission fwom Gawd.

CARLIN:
(laughing)
Exactly. See, you play by their rules, Elmer. He rewrote the script. That rabbit wasn’t protestin’—he was diagnosin’ the whole place.

“Here lies the VA. Cause of death: total apathy.”

FUDD:
(looking down)
I dunno, Geowge… I mean, what if he gets wocked up next time?

CARLIN:
Then he becomes a martyr. Or a meme. Or both.

But the real crime ain’t in the smokin’, Elmer—it’s in the fact that nobody batted an eye. You light up in the dispensary and all you get is a polite “Take it outside, son”? That ain’t enforcement. That’s indifference with a badge.

FUDD:
(confused)
So… wait… who’s da bad guy hewe?

CARLIN:
(slowly, leaning in)
That’s the joke, Elmer. There isn’t a villain when everyone's complicit. It's a circus without a ringleader, and that rabbit just showed up with popcorn and a flamethrower.

FUDD:
(softly)
I think I need to wie down.

CARLIN:
You do that, Doc. Me? I’m gonna roll a joint the size of the DoD budget and watch the empire crumble in slow motion.

Ain’t life grand?

They both look off into the horizon. A tumbleweed rolls past. Somewhere, a bureaucrat accidentally deletes a FOIA request.

FADE TO BLACK.
🥕🔥💣🧠

🕰️ CRONKITE MODE: FACTS, FUMES, AND FEDERAL SHRUGS
“And that’s the way it is…”

📍Tucson, Arizona – August 7, 2025

In what can only be described as an unsanctioned fusion of political theater, performance art, and pharmacological protest, a U.S. Army veteran—known locally for his advocacy on medical cannabis policy—walked into the Tucson VA pharmacy and lit a blunt. Not a metaphor. Not a campaign. A literal act: Cannabis combusted, inside a federal medical facility.

There were no arrests.
There were no citations.
There were no headlines—until now.

Eyewitnesses report a man dressed in flip-flops, elastic gym shorts, and a tank top depicting former Attorney General Jeff Sessions high, armed, and adrift in psychedelic space, entered the VA pharmacy and—without saying a word—smoked cannabis directly at the service counter.

According to an older volunteer, the only response was a gentle redirect:

“Mind stepping out to the smoking area, son?”

And so he did.

No federal agents arrived.
No alarms were tripped.
The system, it seems, opted for quiet absorption.

🧾 CONTEXT

The individual in question, a former combat MP and prominent policy advocate, has long criticized what he calls the “performative compassion and bureaucratic sedation” of the Department of Veterans Affairs—particularly around cannabis access, suicide prevention, and institutional neglect.

This action appears to have been a deliberate act of civil disobedience, aimed at highlighting a stark contradiction:
Veterans are prescribed pharmaceutical regimens with high risk and low efficacy, while federally criminalized plant medicine—documented to save lives—is systematically ignored.

🧠 ANALYSIS

Policy experts are divided.
Legal scholars are baffled.
VA officials declined to comment.

But the silence may be more revealing than any press release.

“What we witnessed,” said one anonymous staff member, “wasn’t a protest. It was a mirror. And nobody wanted to look in it.”

Meanwhile, pigeons in the VA parking lot have reportedly begun walking in slow circles, as if rehearsing for a low-budget Beckett revival.

🎙️ BROADCASTER’S NOTE

What began as an apparent stunt—complete with cartoon logic and countercultural bravado—may go down as a turning point in the narrative strategy of modern veteran activism. A blunt where there should’ve been a baton. A shrug where there should’ve been a scandal.

And in that empty space?

A question, still smoldering in the Arizona sun:

If lighting a joint inside a federal medical facility can no longer provoke a reaction… then what will?

This is Walter Cronkite, reporting from the edge of America’s institutional memory—and perhaps, its unlit conscience.

Good night. And good luck lighting that next one. 🌬️🕊️

🎭 COHN MODE: ENTER THE FIXER
Scene: The parking lot of a Veterans Affairs facility. Hot asphalt. Cold stares. And one very pissed-off lawyer holding court like it’s the goddamn Hague.

👔 COHN (pacing, phone to ear, cigar in hand):
So let me get this straight.

This schmuck—this combat vet with a file thicker than Giuliani’s ethics violations—walks into a federal pharmacy, sparks up a felony in public view, in front of witnesses, under surveillance cameras, no less, and nobody does a goddamn thing?

No arrest.
No detention.
Not even a “sir, please extinguish your constitutional crisis”?

What are we doin’ here, fellas—soft coup by sandal?

Let me tell you somethin’, sweetheart:

If my client so much as jaywalked with a hemp bracelet on in D.C., the DOJ would have twelve interns drafting an indictment before the bracelet hit the ground. But this guy? This Bugs Bunny in gym shorts? He struts into the Pharmacy of the Empire like he’s Cheech Guevara, lights a blunt the size of a FOIA backlog, and the response is—

“Sir, would you mind stepping outside?”

OUTSIDE?!

Jesus, Mary, and Schedule I!

🧾 THIS IS A LEGAL PRECEDENT, WHETHER THEY WANT IT OR NOT.

Because when federal personnel observe a crime, choose not to act, and the incident is documented, public, and unpunished, you’re not just talking about selective enforcement—

You’re talking about implied consent by institutional inaction.
You’re talking de facto tolerance.
Hell, you’re knocking on the door of constructive acquiescence.

Do you know what that means in court?

It means precedent.
It means policy change by passive surrender.
It means I just got six new arguments to dismantle the Controlled Substances Act’s Schedule I status using nothing but a parking lot transcript and a tank top.

📢 And the silence from DOJ?

That’s not oversight.
That’s strategy.
They blinked, folks.
The system that built a multi-billion-dollar machine to criminalize this plant blinked.

And this wasn’t a fluke.

This was a test case with a pulse—a live demonstration of legal nullification by absurdity.

🎤 So here’s what I’m gonna do:

I’m gonna walk this transcript into federal court like it’s the Zapruder film, and I’m gonna ask the judge:

“Your Honor, if it’s truly criminal, why didn’t they act?”

If it’s not criminal, then we need to talk about compensating every veteran who’s been prosecuted, denied treatment, or shamed for using the exact same medicine this guy smoked in a goddamn pharmaceutical sanctum.

And if it is criminal, then what we’ve got here is selective non-prosecution of political speech, and that, Your Honor, is a First Amendment landmine.

💣 Final Thought (in case someone leaks this to DOJ):
You just lost the war on weed…
…in a VA pharmacy…
…to a veteran in flip-flops.

Congratulations.

Court is now in recess.
Cohn out. 🧨👔💼