ollowing on the success of the over 3 million drug-related arrests made on April 25th’s Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, law enforcement officers continued to step up their campaign to bring in more illegal drug users. The most notable accomplishment was the successful placement by Bernalillo County, New Mexico police of a two-year-old undercover agent who aided in the arrest of his drug-dealing foster parent and co-conspirators.

The underage agent, on loan from the Drug Enforcement Agency, whose name has been withheld both because his minor status and because he’s already working another case, was the key figure in locating 1,700 pounds of marijuana and the apprehension of 4 unidentified drug traffickers. Besides the adults, an unidentified big sister has been held for questioning and suspicion of administering an Indian burn to a police officer.

The arrests have spawned rumors that other juvenile undercover agents are currently operating with major drug players across the country, a rumor confirmed by our source inside the DEA. The placement of underage special agents was the brainchild of none other than the man responsible for the successful Bring Your Drugs to Work Day, DEA wunderkind Dickie Milkweed.

"You see, you can’t attack drugs on the street alone—that’s why the drug war has always failed, just going after the dealers," said Milkweed, sharing a pitcher of beer with a bunch of his DEA buddies while this reporting apparition haunted the corner of the booth. "We’ve got a new way at the DEA—the Milkweed way. And it works. You attack drugs with a three-pronged attack."

Milkweed formed his hand into a three-pronged claw to illustrate, and asked us to ignore his fourth finger and thumb.

"Prong one—that’s deception," said Milkweed. "We lure the dealers and the users into the open. That was what Bring Your Drugs to Work Day was all about. Prong two—that’s the placement of undetectable undercover narcotics officers. People who will never be asked to do drugs or show their loyalties—because dealers think, ’Hey, there’s no way any sane law enforcement group would use a 2-year-old.’ Prong two, although it could go under prong one as a sub-prong, if we needed to, with deception. But then we are missing a vital second prong. Prong three? That’s a secret. I can’t tell you."

Milkweed insists all of the juvenile undercover agents are in no danger, since most are under five, they have never been formally trained and are, in fact, "natural" in their roles as the children of the targets they are assigned to. The agent who assisted in the New Mexico arrest has been in his role with the target family since his birth, and became such a part of the machinery of the drug family he became a trusted member, a long-time goal for any undercover agent. The down side, according to Milkweed, is that wires and listening devices cannot be worn by the agents because they often found during diaper changes.

"People ask me, is putting a 2-year-old agent in the custody of a drug dealer worth the risk to win the drug war?" Milkweed rhetorically asked. "To which I say, have you ever seen a crackhead? I have. On TV. And I never want to see one in real life. We must do everything we can to stop drugs. Maybe if you buy the next pitcher I’ll let you in on prong three."

This reporter did indeed purchase the next rounds of spirits, but the betrayal of mortals showed itself, and I got dick about prong three.

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"I remember the first poem I ever read. I was maybe six or seven, possibly twelve or thirty-two, sometimes numbers blur together in my head.

It started out something like, 'I think that I shall never see, a poem as lovely as a tree.' Well, needless to say, that turned me off to poetry right away. I have enough nasty thoughts a-tumblin' round in my head without opening my mind to the possibility of sexual congress with a tree. I'm not sure what kind of liberal hoo-hah forced my teachers to include the perverse interest in forestry among my poetic education, but I wanted no part of it.

It was only later, in my college career, that I had a differing point of view put to me. I stopped my English teacher, Gadfly Harpskull, in the hallway and told him I was going to drop out of his class if he kept reading poetry to us, I wanted no part of it. He demanded I explain my disdain for poetry. I did, and he laughed.

'Hartwig, young man,'—he frequently called me Hartwig— 'I'm afraid your understanding of the poem is a little skewed from that of others. Most people interpret Kilmer's poem to be about the loveliness of nature, the inability of creations by man to match the sheer beauty of nature.'

'Most, you say,' I asked him. 'Not all?'

'Well, naturally, any poem is up for a different interpretation. Some of it requires stretching. In fact, it's possible for any poem to be about sex with a tree if your imagination reaches toward that inclination all the time.'

That was indeed what I had suspected all the time. I dropped the class and never looked back."

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Hallmark is going down. Ask yourself, where are they when you really need them? All I wanted was a card that said "Sorry for Kicking Your Grandma in the Kidneys," was that too much to ask? Apparently so. Time and time again Hallmark has left me high and dry to draw up my own cards of one stick figure putting the boot-stomp on another, or a cat getting sucked into a lawnmower. God knows I can't draw, and thanks to my inept doodles I think my cards often confuse the situation more than they help it. And I always misspell "convalescence." It's embarrassing.

I guess Hallmark just caters to the goody two-shoes religious minority out there who never need cards that explain honestly confusing a schoolyard with an archery range. That's fine if it makes them feel good about themselves, but where does it leave me? I'll tell you where: Running down to the drugstore for construction paper and glitter glue every other damned day. And who passed the law saying you can't buy single crayons? I'm tired of having to buy a whole new set every time I wear out the red. It's a scam, and it wouldn't surprise me if Hallmark was behind it all. I hear they bought up all of the crayon and marker companies right before they yanked their excellent all-purpose "Woops! Excuse the Boner!" card off the market back in the early 80's.

Now I'm not one to sit idly by while a bunch of card-writing fairies make and asshole out of me and my likeminded friends. I can ro-sham-bo with the best of 'em, and my answer is to give Hallmark a kick right in the nut called competition. That's right, I'm starting my own card company. Hallmark's had it's time to shine, now it's time for that dinosaur to croak and lay down dead for a long time so it can be gas for my SUV.

I'm gonna hit those poofs right where they live. Or don't live. Whatever you want to call it. Point is, I'm gonna make the cards that Hallmark won't. Remorseful Rascal Cards, I'll call it. And it'll be huge, like the Goodyear blimp wearing pants. Take my word on that. Those fussy little milquetoasts won't know what hit 'em.

The possibilities are endless. Hell, we can do a whole line on the unintended consequences of blindly discharging a shotgun out your bedroom window alone. A big moneymaker there, mark my words.

Here's another great one: Let's say you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, riding a forklift over some guy's wife while she's out bicycling or something. No problem. We'll have this card with a guy on the front of it in a giant baby diaper, looking all ashamed, and on the inside it'll say "Sowwy about my widow accident!" You deliver that with some flowers to the funeral and bingo, you're a class act in everybody's eyes. That's the magic of greeting cards.

I've already got a million of these things written in my head. Some real zingers, too.

"Sorry to hear your dad got the cancer, I guess my setting your lawn on fire doesn't seem like such a big deal now, does it?" I could have used that one last year.

"Only one of us thought my D.U.I. was funny… But that's because you couldn't see the look on your face when the Suburban hit your couch!"

Hallmark will probably last just long enough to regret the goldmine they let slip away. And by then it'll be too late, they'll have no choice but to squirm uncomfortably in their patent-leather seats, knowing R.R. Cards just gave them one big ole corporate murph.

That oughta teach 'em.

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