That’s what I thought to myself when I saw the headline “Fungus hits Afghan opium poppies” on the BBC News site tonight.

I wasn’t particularly surprised, then, to have “British and US accused of poppy plague warfare” be the other result in Google News.

Today, in the Southern County, I shared a bus stop with, I think, three generations of one family. The daughter— twenty, 350 pounds, manic  and eye-darty, wearing revealing clothing (revealing, of course, tramp stamp-esque body art). Swearing about how “fine, they’ll get fucking frozen pizzas if (her Mom)’s sick of macaroni and cheese!” The mom— I thought a sister at first (I thought the daughter older and the Mom younger) but later guessed thirty-five, heavily make-uped, matching body art, matching weight, huge (twenty centimeter wide) bruises on her lower legs. Wearing sunglasses; couldn’t figure out how to get her Mom onto the bus wheelchair ramp. The grandmother— sheen of dementia, smiling at nothing, mid-sixties, wheelchair, right leg in a cast (at a twenty degree angle towards her starboard side), top inexplicably buttoned down to reveal Victoria’s Secret-style push-up bra. It was a definite Stare At The Ground kind of situation.