Thursday, November 23rd, 2017

Pseudoephedrine dreams


I’d love to spend my time responding to Bruce Murphy or writing on the Huckleberry Finn controversy, but my head has been stuffed up more than a moose head within range of Sarah Palin’s rifle.

Fortunately, there’s this great drug called pseudoephedrine that does a great job of helping me with my cold. Unfortunately, some busybodies decided that it should be pulled off the shelves and put behind a wall of forms so complicated it could only have been conceived by state government. So instead of having the drug on Monday or Tuesday when I was too sick to drive, I had to wait until today.

I can’t even blame the Democrats, and now this same do-gooder, Kitty Rhoades, is a deputy secretary of the Department of Health Services. So, is she in charge of preventing people from being healthy? “Sorry, no pills for you. Someone might buy a truckload to make methamphetamine instead of buying it from Mexico like everyone else.”

Before the law controlling pseudoephedrine was put into place, someone could go into a grocery store and buy the good stuff and bring it home to their loved one without any hassle, regardless of the hour. Now someone has to wait until a pharmacist is on duty, wait in line, show identification, and sign for the pills. Walgreens makes you pay for them right away, too, which really screws you up if you haven’t bought orange juice, chicken soup and cough drops yet.

I hope the Walgreens I purchased my drugs from tonight appreciates all the business cards I spilled everywhere while trying to juggle everything just to get my photo id out. At least with a prescription I can phone it in and pick it up through the drive-through window. With pseudoephedrine I have to walk into the store, pick a card off the shelf, and stand in line hoping I picked the right stuff. (By the way, I didn’t, but it’s close enough.)

I seriously wonder how much productivity is lost because we make pseudoephedrine so hard to purchase. At least when the TSA gets invasive with you, they don’t make you sign for the pleasure of it.

By the way, the kid huffing the cheap bleach in aisle 3 says, “High.”

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