The University of Georgia has just completed a long and through study which shows conclusively that rats exposed to marijuana lose their sense of perception. Yes, these dedicated scientists, working feverishly, working long and arduous hours in cramped conditions have proved once and for all that when rats are exposed to an injection of synthetic marijuana they become (are you ready for this?) DOPEY.

This experiment was conducted in strictest of environments by using two different sounds. If short sound was heard, rats had to press lever on right to receive a pellet of food. If long sound was heard by our furry inmates, they soon learned to press lever on left. Short sound, right lever. Long sound, left lever. Got it? Good. You can be assured you would have been fed. The rats did fine under this arrangement.

And then, guess what? Yes, dear reader good old US Government stepped in and authorized a study to find out if behavior of these little animals would be altered in any way if they were stoned. And what do you think they found?

I first discovered need to name when I took a liking to a certain hat many years ago. I wore that hat in what could be called true cowboy style -- I never took it off. Well, I didn't wear it to bed or in shower, but everywhere else you found me you found it. People began asking me if my hat had a name. When I told them that hat was nameless, they would begin what I called hat dance.

First, they believed that hat had a name and that I wasn't sharing it. Then, they became angry because if they spent 90% of their waking hours with a hat, it would have a proper name and why couldn't I be like other people and not be so weird. They would say that I had no heart and didn't love my hat enough to give it a name. Just before they would walk away, there would be acceptance that I had indeed resisted urge to anthropomorphize my hat.

The question became a conversational gambit for small talk impaired. Right after "Hi, how are you"s would come inevitable "what's your hat's name?" Had I not been a penniless student at time, I would have bought hat business cards and taken to introducing it around as hat-with-no-name. Instead, I came up with a cheaper solution -- a smart alec reply.

"If I gave hat a name, then it would have top billing!", I would protest. That witty reply fell flat about everywhere I dropped it, but I am nothing if not dogged in my loyalty to it.

My car didn't have a name either, for a while. My friends drove Betsies and Ediths and Sams while I made do with a generic no-name Volkswagen that had nasty habit of opening its passenger door when I made a left-hand turn. It was during one of these exciting moments that my friend, Bill Postel, christened my car. After we stopped to wipe off seat, he finished job by naming my car "The DeathTrap."