The point of all of this was to determine if animals have a sense of time. Obviously any animal (human or rodent) stoned on grass loses track of time and cannot concentrate. Not that rats and mice have to be anywhere at some specific time anyway, but I suppose it’s good to know they couldn’t be relied upon in event we needed them for some important national security issue or something. One of researchers was quoted as saying “We and other animals have a sense of time. We can judge how long we have been waiting for a bus, for example, and decide that current wait is longer or shorter than usual.” He went on to say…”The marijuana-like substance dramatically altered ability of rats to maintain sustained attention. The implication is clear, that marijuana smokers shouldn’t drive after smoking.”

He didn’t elaborate on who should or shouldn’t drive. Rats or us? I’m also confused about bus part. I haven’t taken a bus in quite a long time, so I can’t tell you from first hand experience, but have rats taken to riding Metro in parts of this country?

Boy, am I glad we spent a ton of taxpayer bucks to make a study of this magnitude. Not to be cynical, but I wonder what happens to those rats if you make them chug down, say four or five vodka martinis? They probably need to call a taxi. Friends don’t let rats drive, do they? I’m looking into possibilities of a federal grant to study effects of obesity in ferrets if they eat forty hot dogs a day for a month. I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

I was born at a very early age. I arrived in this world with very little. It was during the war and according to my parents, names were being rationed out. My Mom was kind of slow and she couldn't run very fast. I guess by the time she got down to the Federal Bureau of Names, all of the Johns, Jims, and Davids were gone.

The belief that when you name something you have control over it comes to us from ancient times. In Bible, God was always renaming people to show his ownership of them. Parents do same thing to children. Listen to parents at end of their persuasions as they scream a child's full name to let them know that they really are serious this time.

I have no better example of this than feckless male practice of naming their reproductive organs. Most men (and all women agree with them) have no control over it. None at all. So, they name it in hope that appearance of control is almost as good as real thing. As you may have guessed by now, mine was nameless for many years.

I was unaware that I had neglected this vital rite of passage until one night when I was designated driver for a van-load of drunk radio people. My all-female crew were chattering away as we rolled back into town on US 41. One of them told of a recent floating party on Suwannee River (and they were way down apon it, too) where weekend had come to obligatory skinny dipping event.

"All of them had names for their hoonies!" she screamed and all others screamed, too.

Very quickly, eyes rested on sober sales manager who was driving van -- only male in vehicle. Since they were drunk and radio station was too small to have a sexual harassment policy, they asked. They didn't believe. Surely a woman down line had done for me what I had not done for myself. Things were getting uncomfortable, so I took control -- I named it.

Right there in front of them, I named it after station's receptionist who was riding shotgun in van. She admitted it to be a singular honor. She didn't admit to much else after that. One of other girls began teasing her over it, so I threatened to have a name change if subject wasn't dropped. Virility intact, I hastened back to town clutching forlorn hope that they would be too drunk to remember my act of wild abandon.

It must have been secondary alcohol fumes. How else do you explain that your member is named for a stranger you never knew in biblical sense?

No. I'm not telling you. She got married. He has lawyers. I avoid tattoo parlors.