Narc, Narc... Who's There?

Today I had to drag my buttock on over to the spawnages' school, during my lunch hour, to watch Mr. Z graduate from the D.A.R.E. program that they've apparently been indoctrinating him into all year. See, the end of the year is chock-full-o this kinda shit, day after day -- D.A.R.E. graduation, end-of-year parties, some outdoor classroom thing Miss O's doing, Mr. Z's actual graduation from 5th grade, ice-cream socials, rummage sales, talent shows, music programs, donate a kidney week, stool-collection day -- you know, myriad events that I have all the time in the goddamn world for because it's not like I have a fucking job to do, or anything.

So, I truck on over, video camera in hand, and watch the cops hand out their certificates and goodie-bags, as they remind all in attendance that one sip of Schlitz or a puff off an errant "marijuana-cigarette" will ruin their lives FOREVER and cause their blossoming bodies to break out in weeping chancres and fistulas, and then the terrorists will have won, so don't even fucking think about it, got it?!!!

And Mr. Z is still in his total law-and-order phase, so he's lapping this shit right up. He told the Old Lady and I that he's never going to have sex because then he'd catch AIDS and HIV (which he pronounced "hihv"). He also wants us to put the D.A.R.E. bumper sticker on our car -- you know, it's kinda difficult to explain to your child why you don't want an anti-drug sticker plastered on your bumper. We ended up just saying, "Uh, we're just not bumper sticker people." We told him he could put it on his car, when he gets one -- right next to the NORML and the "Gas, Grass or Ass: No One Rides for Free" bumper stickers he'll be sportin' by then.

It's strange, though. Of course I don't want him to go nuts with the drugs (and certainly not until he's old enough to buy his own bong), but at the same time, there's something that creeped me out about that D.A.R.E. graduation thing. It just seemed kinda brown-shirt-y to me. Then again, I first started smoking pot when I was 13, and that's only a little over three years away for Mr. Z. So, you know, maybe striking a little fear into the lad at this point is a good thing. I dunno. Wish I had a fattie to light up so I could ponder all this shit a little deeper.

Anywhich, the boy made this incredible poster for the event and I thought I'd share a bit of it with you. He didn't win the poster contest -- the four that won were bullshit do-gooder numbers with fancy lettering, pretty colors and lots of trite "stay off drugs" messaging. Buncha fucking amateurs. Mr. Z did things his own, twisted way. Check its look:


The Smokes!


The Hooch!


The Doobage!


The Peer Pressure!

And finally, his analysis of the rampant deception found in today's cigarette advertising:



And he's coming up with that shit without smokin' a blunt. I guess the boy's on some kind of natural high. Though he may be copping a contact buzz from inadvertently huffin' his magic markers.

Hm. Where's that Sharpie?