Marijuana Dealer
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.
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