HOW DO YOU FEEL?

The answer to that question is "seriously affected". Sick, even.
You see, I had a foretaste of Purim last night. No, I did not have a riotous party with the younger members of my shul, and no we did not end up stumbling down Polk Street at four in morning singing 'Yankif der Gonif' at the top of our lungs. That would have been better.


The evening started off quite different than it ended. A friend from the yeshiva was in the area, we went and had dinner at the only kosher restaurant in downtown San Francisco. Over dinner we discussed various things, and true to Godwin's Rule of Analogies, eventually the Rambam was cited.

[Godwin's Rule of Analogies, also called Godwin's Law. To paraphrase: "As a conversation progresses, the likelihood that someone will mention the Rambam approaches 1", meaning that it is almost inevitable that you will hear the name Moishe ben Maimon today.]


Then the Ramban was also mentioned, as well as a gentleman named Pablo Cristiani. At this point a rabbi from Australia joined in the conversation. So far, so good.

Continuing the discussion after dinner, I suggested that as I wished to smoke, and would rather not do so in a downpour, we should go to the Occidental Cigar Club to indulge in a hospitable atmosphere.
So we did.

Normally I light up a pipe while there but I did not do so last night, because, as I explained to my friend, I was experimenting with a new blend.
The logic is this: normally I smoke two or three bowls while there, which means two or three drinks. This new experimental tobacco recipe is the best imitation of the Balkan Sobranie Mixture that I have ever compounded, and so delicious that I would end up smoking five or six bowls, finally stumbling out at closing with a serious whooze on.
That would mean that I would wake up in the morning with a headache and nausea from the five or six drinks, and a mouth feeling like a camel had crawled in and died a violent death there.
So no. No pipe. Just a small cheroot, and just one drink.

After my friend left for the airport, I went to another bar.

That's when things began to go south.

During the first drink there (my second drink of the evening), a woman entered.



COSSACK SLUT

Meaning, in this case, a deliciously curvy Mongolian girl-person with bad clothing choices and exhibitionist tendencies. She caught my eye from the moment she sat down twenty feet away, and even from that distance I could tell that she was dangerous. Eric, another customer of the bar, was near her, and after ten minutes he moved over to my end of the bar muttering to himself "stay out of trouble, stay out of trouble".
When he went to the bathroom she snaked out a hand and grabbed him by the shoulder. He politely wrestled himself loose.
When he came back, she followed him to our end. Within minutes Eric excused himself and left. So she focused her attention on me.
Now, something you might not know about me is that I am able to have a calm conversation, looking people in the eye, instead of stuttering while staring at their extremely attractive and creamy luscious cleavage, no matter how low-cut and flimsy their upper garment. I'm talented that way.
That flesh looked incredibly soft and warm while we talked. Good heavens.

Her off-kilter looniness and my dry responses cut the discussion short.

Disappointed in me, she headed over to the far end of the room, where she made a succession of men aware of her assets. They were indeed very fine assets - lovely poofy roundnesses, not of any great size, but utterly perfect of shape. And kudos for presentation!
Alas, the sheer craziness of her discourse chased all of the gentlemen away, one after another. At various points she huffed to herself, palm-smacked a table, bent over deeply, twitched, extended a leg in an eccentric dance move, or pouted fiercely (her face looked kissy-poo insane when she did so), before advancing on the next victim.
She seemed to have more tics than a clock, and the spectacle was exceedingly entertaining - I had four more whiskeys while enjoying the show.

When I got home at twelve, I decided to smoke a pipe after all.
Which, as it turns out, was the mistake that made the Purim Fairy come early this year - I poured myself a drink to accompany the smoke. Then I had another pipe full, and another drink. And another. One more of each.
What the heck, one more.


And that, my friends, explains today's very first post. And why I feel like crap.

TOBACCO INDEX


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