THE EVILS OF MARIJUANA and THE EROTICISM OF WINNIE THE POOH D.P. Beyfuss Drunk and ugly on the rocket ship earth feeling the lonely and the blue...hopelessness and a quart of shame.  You’re stoned and bored and you’re highest aspiration is being dead and long forgotten; alone in a tiny room that is noticeably devoid of all things giddy.   But then, Christ, that word, "giddy", it makes you think of cute, brown eyed girls lying around their bedrooms writing bad poetry; girls with tiny apartments in dangerous neighborhoods with their own bad art covering the cracks in the walls; barefoot girls with hip hairstyles and pipes and bongs and little wooden box things who never ever have any weed. And, thank heavens for that, you think, a few tokes and they change.  They turn into jabbering lunatics.  They start every sentence with, "I feel".  "I feel like I'm talking too much. I feel like I can't breathe!  I feel, I feel, I feel!!!”  Scary stuff.   And sometimes she lives at home with her folks.  Sometimes there's an ex-marine father with a closet full of automatic weapons and dead animals all over the fucking walls.  And you, your up in his little girl's room, smoking some shit, trying to get into her Winnie the Pooh panties; watching her have a fucking nervous breakdown under her Winnie the Pooh comforter. And when he yells up the stairs, says, "HONEY??!!", you're thinking the same goddamned thing.   You suddenly realize you’ve got a lot in common with ol’ Winnie the Pooh ‘cause it’s all about the honey, the sweet, sweet honey.  Guns be damned, you think, so what if this crazy son of a bitch comes up here and sees my hand in the honey pot.  He’ll kill you for sure, but your survival instinct’ s been diverted and ignored in the presence of the sweet and the sticky.  All the blood you’re brain needs to get you out of this mess has quickly moved to the south of your pants.  Unable to hatch an escape plan, it’s left to process images of shapely calves and painted toe-nails; perky breasts and tight thighs and belly-skin.    You’re aware of a familiar bulge in your jeans and forget about the old man just long enough to seal your fate.  Heavy boots on carpeted stairs are no match for the five disk changer and hundred watt amp she got for her twenty-first birthday.  You look at the door, the towel she’s got stuffed in the crack, Bob Marley’s enormous head grinning at you like some cruel Rastafarian ghost looking forward to watching you die.   “My dad is coming”, she says, and jumps off the bed.  She pulls on a pair of baggy red sweatpants.  “Don’t worry”, you say, “he’ll never get past the towel.”  But the girl is straight now, and frightened.  She’s spraying Lysol and trying to light candles, telling you to hide, to get down, to get out.   Just as you’re about to explain to her that you are both consenting adults, over the age of twenty- one, with a right to privacy, etc. etc., the door opens.  It’s the old man.  He asks you just what in hell you’re doing to his daughter but doesn’t give you a chance to answer.  The forearm he’s got pressed against your windpipe makes it impossible to speak but it does give you an excellent view of his faded marine corps Tattoo.  You notice that the bulldog is not smiling.  The notice the girl cowering in the corner - god she’s cute - and you remember why you’re here.   You step back and judo flip the old man over your shoulder.  “I’m here for the honey pot, old man!”  You stomp on his head once to show him you mean business.  “We’re getting out of here”, you say, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the room.  The old man lies there, defeated.   You get her in the car and after a quick stop at the liquor store for supplies, into your bed.   Now it’s all flesh and sweat and thrusting and grabbing and groping.  And you’re giving it to her boy, the high hard one, again and again and again; and she’s screaming and clawing at your back saying, “Pooh Bear, oh POOH BEAR!!”  She’s moaning and clawing and cursing…and that awful hissing, that goddamn awful hissing.  You try to find it without looking; you try to get your thumb over the hole because you only need a few more seconds.  And then, “ooooohhhhhhhhhhhhh, jesus, fuck…..”, and it’s over.  And you’re alone again with a badly damaged swimfin, and the sad fact that you just fucked a swimfin to death.  And you’re still drunk, still ugly, and still feeling the lonely and the blue.