Ya know, people have been saying completely untrue things about me ever since I joined John on the trail those years ago. Well, every once in a while I have to do my best to clear the air and speak for myself so the media doesn't get the last word about my incredibly nuanced life. I've stepped into the fray to tell everyone once and for all that I indeed do not keep a bin of dungeness crabs with me wherever I go to use in some bizarre sex ritual. I went on record explaining that my hatred for the entire nation of Taiwan has nothing to do with racism and everything to do with a faulty plastic toy that rendered significant (though potentially temporary) neurological damage to my seven-year-old self. Today I must once again stand in defense of my own unassailable character because of the broad and thoroughly incorrect assumptions of that good-for-nothing liberal Steve Fox. Not only am I in support of the full legalization of marijuana, I would gladly speak on behalf of Nevadans for Sensible Marijuana Laws not for $25,000, but completely pro bono.

The truth is, me and the luscious ganja have had a long and storied history. I first encountered the sacred bud at the tender age of 13 when some high schoolers from Anchorage popped into Wasilla for a little H.R. Hunt-n-Puff. I was drawn to the stimulating crack of their rifles, but I stayed for their premium reefer. Just one toke sent me over the line and into a purple, sticky world of new-found glory. That day, my life changed forever.

It was a little difficult getting my hands on any pot, let alone the good stuff, during my teen years. Wasilla wasn't exactly the bud capitol of the world back then and it probably isn't now, either. Don't get me wrong, the stuff that grows in Alaska is top of the shelf, but the season is short so most of it gets inhaled before September rolls in. Most of our stuff got flown in on little Cessna planes and sneaked past customs on tiny rubber boats. If I could get my hands on all the ganj that got dumped into the Gulf, I'd never want for a smoke ever again.

Oh, but then I made it down to Hawaii. What, you think I went to that school for the academics? Hell, if I made it to class it was because I took a wrong turn on the way to the beach. I practically lived in Tommy Chun's hot-boxing hut on Maui. I had to get away from that place because, strange as it is for me to admit this, I was actually smoking too much. You can't just jump into the deep end like that. I mean, I guess I toke more often now, or at least with stronger stuff, than I did back then, but this is only after years of practice.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I owe every bit of my success to weed. My vice presidential bid? I got that because I got a cut from my dealer for every new customer I brought him and he couldn't keep up with me. Well, he was G.W.'s dealer, too, so he pulled some strings and got me a cushy gig with the party. My book deal only happened because the ghost writer and I used to hang out at his apartment getting baked and talking about philosophy. He's a really deep guy, by the way. Hell, the Fox News people are all huge 'heads. Glenn Beck has, I'm not joking, the biggest bong I have ever seen. He calls it the Washington Monument.

So, Mr. Steve Smarty-Pants Fox, you can stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Ya know, if you can handle your stuff.