From the Archives: Mr. Randall Goes to Washington (1980)
By Robert Randall Once a week I go to a pharmacy located near my home in Washington, D.C., to pick up 70 prerolled cigarettes containing two and a half ounces of marijuana. The transaction is perfectly legal. My marijuana dealer is the U.S. government. I have glaucoma, a painless, incurable eye disease. Uncontrolled, it results… Keep Reading