Everybody MUST Get Stoned!

Cough, cough.

Bad smoke again.

Thanks to State coercion.

They force us to buy Indian – from Old Monkey to the Bajaj autorickshaw; they force us to “serve” in villages; they force us to smoke what they allow us to smoke; they force us to use what they call money.

The State is nothing but Coercion – but the intent is good: to use coercion against those who commit injustices.

But, of course, power corrupts, absolute power corrupts absolutely, and coercion is now used for patently unjust ends, including private ends: like vacating some villages for a Tata car plant.

Much of this misuse of coercion lies unnoticed, because the coercion is indirect: like the customs man, whom nobody sees, so nobody sees what is NOT on the market.

A liberal party is not on the political market because coercion is used to keep us out.

This entire Socialist State is nothing but the ABUSE OF COERCION.

I wondered what I would do if I had this power of organized, legitimate, tax-funded coercion.

I would declare Bob Dylan’s “Everybody Must Get Stoned” the national anthem.

Emphasis on the MUST.

If you are not stoned, and the police notice, you might be in serious trouble, especially if you are a complete stranger to the manners and customs of the local people.

We prefer peaceful stoned strangers to drunken strangers here, or even "sober as a judge" strangers, who are often very mean machines.

The unstoned stranger would be sung the national anthem and the policeman would offer him a mighty spliff.

These are our “customs,” he would say; and, so far, no unjust force has been used.

What if the stranger refuses to light up; or worse, like clinton, refuses to inhale, thereby wasting tax money, uselessly burning up a Spliff of State?

It is then that FORCE comes in.

The policeman would pull out his .45 Magnum, “the most powerful handgun in the world, that can blow your head clean off.”

This is threat of grievous hurt – so must be seen as COERCION.

He would play the national anthem once again and then, pointing his .45 Magnum at the stranger’s head, would offer the choice: choose how your want your brains blown, punk, because the laws are very TOUGH in this land: it’s either the spliff or the .45 Magnum.

We all know how this story will end, of course.

Peace will prevail.

The stranger will get stoned and peacefully mingle in the market.

The policeman will return to his station.

There, he will light up a spliff himself, and say to the mirror on the wall: “You know why they call me Dirty Harry? Because I get all the dirtiest jobs.”