Marijuana Dealer Primer

The Definition of “Pot”: Pot, is the term for a failure on a term of logic in middle school, that of one’s proper rights given the Preamble. The reader of the Preamble, that smokes pot, assumes that the Preamble is inferior to foreign rights, on any soil, particularly American, the lead financiers of marijuana, “pot”. These are potheads, the users of marijuana. Should one’s parent die, or be divorced, or be drafted to foreign role, a marijuana dealer arises, the alternatives being a “cheat” (someone who’s religious house needs to be shut down, they don’t have stepfamily), a “hero” (they were born outside of wedlock or without a parent, outside of wedlock being a “syndicate player”, a hero badge, and a dead parent young being a “vigilante”, a beautiful god or goddess), and the “cop” (someone wants pure money, being placed on the police force by their family hand for police influence, a corruption syndicate).

The Preamble: The Preamble, of the United Constitution, states that all our equal, under God. God is your sense of community, the ancient criminal pledge upon which the United States is based on, the limit and extension of understand of your pledge as a human to the community. If they want marijuana, they’ll get it.

The Pothead: You had a poor teacher, and you are destined and provoked to point out poor teachers, until you are a parent. Then you will point out your child as a poor teacher, when they are, making them an educator, unless a pedophile, the teacher or professor or minister whose father didn’t smoke marijuana, a man from wealth instead of poverty, the traitor’s child. This parent, is a pedophile, and as a result, the child is a fascist, a “country folk”, a Confederate.

The Grass Dealer: Their parent died, was divorced, or had to serve in a conflict overseas or domestically, perhaps a war or perhaps an assignment or perhaps a “tax issue”, that of espionage. If your parents got married, meaning you smoked pot, you were a pothead, you are now a marijuana dealer. Your sacred duty is the flow of economics, the marijuana, the spice, unless a prophet, someone recruited by a poor parent for sales of marijuana, in which case the market collapses, since your parent has remarried into a pedophile family, that stands with police morals, despite being stepfamily.

The Cheat: This man wants pot for influence, and despite being a courier and bagboy for a syndicate, a term of organized return to benefit, he wants power. It’s a teacher, professor, or spy, that wants to destroy the marijuana trade, for benefit of self to videos and teaching engrams learned when young, taught by police not for you, the cheat, or for the grass dealer, the cop’s best friend (their vacation, on a smooth joint, to understand their child, the potential widow or widower’s son). No, Cheat, you wanted to get a bunch of money, for a boyfriend or girlfriend, betraying a woman or man in love with the grass dealer, you’re some kind of spy, some kind of Narc, and not the kind that gives a pot dealer a job as one of you (a narcotics officer), but one that considers their appearance everything (a narcissistic sociopath, a homosexual college student).

The Hero: You lost your father young, honey. You were stolen from the streets, off a man’s semen, you were taken from home, by DSS, or your mother died in birth, or your father claimed himself a life through some means. You’re the spy, the champion pot dealer, the eternal source of justice inside the stoner community. You’ve come to the place of champions, and spotted the Devil, the man defeated, and God, the man to defeat. God, has thrown Morningstar out of his kingdom, for the crime of petty sex, that which God wants too, but considers it different, from work of Scripture, the enemy in the game of law enforcement. You are the smartest man in your town, you wanted sex with a teacher, whereas the Devil desired an older woman, and God desired the Devil’s mate in heterosexual honor for both.

The Player: Your parent died young, you are no pot dealer. Any fate placed upon you, makes you a vigilante, a lawyer, the kind of scum that can never hold a bar degree unless cheating, making you a betrayer, “Superman is a Nazi”. You are the ancient and olden character in comics, the way a song becomes the testament for the generation beyond you. You were once a normal man, young pot dealer, until you refused the cuffs of arrest, and became a cop, to such a norm, that the police could not place you. We don’t know where you come from, Player, other than a cop’s abortion, and the son he wanted, or the daughter he feared. You are Cain, and you are bound to slay Abel, for this is the Bible we understand.

The Cop: Well, cop, you cheated, every merit and act of crime. You thought you got away with it, didn’t you? Welcome to overwatch and oversight, the deepest hole of the cop community. You are now Contra-Red, police, or Contra-Black, military, the Conspiracy. You can elect any leader, you can appoint any law, and you can pass any clerk. You realized, young, that none of this school and fiction meant anything, just your own eyes, watching, hard and sharp. Each one of these players is your tool, besides the most terrifying last one, the Governor’s Association. You are retarded, you skipped school.

The Governor’s Association: The elected houses of provincial management, funded by numbers out of the disabled houses, the ill programs, and the common journalism to bust social programs in film, by investigative mental patient. A Governor, is not a politician, or president, or manager. They exist on influence for their friend and family, to make business strong, in their capital, so legislators can do their job.

Soft Money: Drug money. College funds, charity collection, day trades, service sector, pot dealers, police informants, cop warehouses, casino manipulators, wagers men, college kids, and smugglers in trucks. This is how we pay our secret cop; the common joe, the kid with a dream in hand, of making it some day. Pure Judenstat.

“If you can achieve it – it is no dream.” Theodor Herzel.

Published by cheater120

Consider me an expert in information munitions. I practice Zazen meditation, Yakuza Trappist form (a Yakuza, games cheat, and Trappist, a counter-agent), as a Bonafuda, a mercantile salesmen of information through philosophy, literature, fiction, and academics, distributed as munitions technique deployed for the purpose apparent to you, unless of course you have violated the ethics of my piece, in which case you will be trapped inside a theft of the piece and an action within the boundaries of the violation you have committed in Benedictine culture, the Jewish affiliate within Catholic culture. Buyer beware, and these poems, are free.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: