I am having the most difficult time writing this column. Things keep popping up, my mind is unfocused and I have an insatiable need to prune my leg hair.

Weird things are conspiring to keep me from writing this column. And it is not because I am stoned off my gourd.

Actually, that part was a joke. Like America's public schools, I am drug-free. Also, drugs cause terrorism, and terrorism is at war with our liberty. Seriously, smoking the drugs is no joking matter.

Unless you are one of the best half-hour comedy shows on cable TV. “Weeds” begins its third season on Showtime at 9 p.m. Monday, Aug. 13.

It seems forever since we last stepped into the gentle, secluded California community of Agrestic. The sights, the sounds, the smells and the frisky manner in which practical widowed mother Nancy Botwin grows and sells pot. Well, it just leaves me feeling all warm inside. Like a puppy. A stoned puppy. With lots of Doritos.

Speaking of nacho-y goodness, the edge we were all left dangling from last season was straight-up juicy, succulent even. Season Two's finale was a masterpiece of television making.

Botwin Junior up and nicked a massive stash of Mom's product just as several groups of big, bad drug dealers showed up looking to collect. So the season ended with many guns pointed at Nancy while her son, with a trunk full of MILF Weed (the street name for Nancy's and her partners' pot), is getting pulled over by the cops.
It seems the house of cards Mom has constructed for the Botwin clan and associated friends has collapsed.

All these problems, and I haven't even mentioned Nancy's DEA boyfriend, who Nancy inadvertently got whacked, with bullets, probably in the head. Then again, their relationship was over, and he was blackmailing her.

So, yes, this season should bake up quite nicely.

I love every guilty moment of this wickedly subversive comedy. Because, come on, I've always been a sucker for a woman with a sound business plan.

So what if the show has a college freshman's geopolitical view of our times? The thing makes me laugh.

Besides, I spent three years as a first-year college student, so who am I to judge?
Wait, I'm a TV critic, it's my job to judge. But it's also my job to know how to spell, and I scrw that up plenty of times.

Yet I do enjoy the odd coincidence of sitting on the front porch of my sprawling suburban nightmare and writing about a show that rails against nightmarish suburban sprawl.

It's, how you say, oddishly coincidental.

And then there are those times when I just make up words. Grammar terrorism.