Is it 4:20 Already?

You might recognize this illustration. It's from the Kama Sutra Indian Sex Guide. As I have noted before, when I tease postings with racy pictures like this, my web traffic goes through the roof. (You can learn a lot from the NY Post.)

Of course I never do it gratuitously. And today is no exception.

A couple of weeks ago I chronicled my journey to "Dr." Catipay's office in West Los Angeles so I could obtain a card and legally purchase "alternative" "herbal" "medication." As someone with a lot of free time on my hand and an unusual sense of curiosity I decided to do some further investigation into "Dr." Catipay's background.

Turns out there's a good reason, actually several good reasons, why this man of medicine is now holed up in a former dry cleaning store on Pico Blvd.

In addition to posting the aforementioned Kama Sutra on the hospital bulletin board, he also posted an article about a man who killed his wife. Editorially adding, "This happens when wives talk too much. They never learn, they never stop. Why?"

I can understand management's displeasure with the former, but I'm a bit unclear on the latter.

Indiscretions like these might have sent "Dr." Catipay scurrying from the medical field into an alternative late-life career that required little or no skills. He could have become a copywriter or a Congressman. But the libidinous "Dr." was not about to go down without a fight.

He fortuitously combined his less than extensive knowledge of the human anatomy with California's growing liberalization of "herbal" "medication" and is now one of the busiest "doctors" on the westside.

You may have noticed my extensive use of quotation marks throughout this posting. Whenever I talk about this topic, particularly now that it is being seen through the filter of legitimate "medicine", I find myself laughing and needing to qualify every remark.

I also realize that I owe you (at least the faithful readers) a follow up story on my subsequent trip to the "pharmacy" otherwise known as a dispensary. Where, under the knowledgeable guidance of a tattooed "pharmacist" with yard-long dreadlocks, I filled my "prescription". Two grams of with something called ATF -- Alaska Thunder Funk.

I've been meaning to write up that story but keep forgetting to do it.
The "medicine" must be working.