Stanley’s rocket descended through the Earth’s atmosphere, the glowing marijuana fuel burning brightly. As he neared the ground, he could see the familiar sights of his home state. He landed with a jolt, the shock absorbers of his homemade rocket absorbing the impact. He stepped out, taking a deep breath of Earth’s air. It was good to be home.

Stanley had made a vow to himself during his journey back from the moon. He would never smoke weed again. The glowing marijuana had saved his life, yes, but it had also made him glow like a neon sign and given him a headache that felt like a small asteroid had taken up residence in his skull. He was done with it.

But Stanley was not a man to do things by halves. He didn’t just want to quit smoking weed; he wanted to make sure no one else did either. He decided to form a non-profit political action committee (PAC) to make weed illegal in all 50 states. And not just illegal, but punishable by death. It was a drastic measure, but Stanley was a man of drastic measures. After all, he had built a rocket and flown to the moon to fight a creature intent on world domination.

Stanley knew he would face opposition. There were those who believed in the medicinal benefits of marijuana, those who enjoyed its recreational use, and those who simply believed in personal freedom. But Stanley was undeterred. He had faced down a moon creature; he could face down a few pot-smoking hippies.

He began his campaign with a series of public speeches, outlining the dangers of marijuana use. He spoke of his own experiences, of the glowing side effects and the monstrous headaches. He spoke of the dangers of addiction, of the potential for abuse. He spoke with passion and conviction, his words resonating with many.

But there were those who laughed at Stanley, who dismissed his claims as the ravings of a lunatic. They pointed to his homemade rocket, to his tales of moon creatures and glowing marijuana. They called him a crackpot, a madman. But Stanley was not deterred. He had faced ridicule before, when he had first announced his plans to fly to the moon. He had proven them wrong then, and he would prove them wrong now.

Stanley’s campaign gained momentum. He attracted followers, people who believed in his cause. He raised funds, enough to start lobbying politicians and influencing policy. He was making a difference, he was sure of it.

But there were moments of doubt, moments when Stanley wondered if he was doing the right thing. He remembered the laughter, the joy he had felt on the moon, the absurdity of his situation. He remembered the creature, the battle, the victory. He remembered the glowing marijuana, the fuel that had saved his life.

Stanley knew that his campaign was a drastic measure, that it was extreme. But he also knew that he was a man of drastic measures, a man of extremes. He had flown to the moon, he had fought a creature intent on world domination, he had used glowing marijuana to fuel his rocket. He could do this. He would do this.

Stanley vowed to never smoke weed again. He had landed on Earth and decided to form a non-profit political action committee (PAC) to make weed illegal in all 50 states and to make possession of it punishable by death. It was a drastic measure, but Stanley was a man of drastic measures. And he was just getting started.