At the back of the hill

Warning: If you stay here long enough you will gain weight! Grazing here strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton. And you might like cheese-doodles.
BTW: I'm presently searching for another person who likes cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Monday, June 27, 2011


Many pipesmokers have written fond reminiscences of their favourite tobacconists, often lamenting that the fine old establishments where they spent their adolescence are no more.
Invariably, they sing of dusty shelves, deep fauteuilles, the smoke-filled atmosphere......

And not a woman in sight.

Basically, they make the place out to be a boys clubhouse with a large imaginary sign over the door stating "no gurlz allowed".
At the very least a place where cooties were kept at arms' length.

Precisely that attitude is what eventually sank the tradition.

In actuality, pipes and cooties are a natural match.
Think about it: who would you rather spend time with - a zesty and charming young lady who happily enjoys the smell of good pipe tobacco?
Or some crusty old unwashed flatulent bozo who smokes the cheapest black woodshavings he can find?

"Back in MY day, we cut up our old boots to smoke, like real men!"

Unfortunately, what he smokes STILL smells like old boot.
Old boot with athletes foot exposure, to be precise.
It's all part of his loveable eccentricity.

The old-fashioned tobacconist may be long gone.
But the crusty old unwashed flatulent bozo is still around.


We must find charming young ladies who either like the smell of pipe-smoke or actually indulge in the habit themselves. Their presence would bring some much needed pleasure back to the process, as well as stimulating companionship and conversational grace.
We need not worry that they would smoke fruity mixtures - we've been fooling ourselves all this time that those appeal to women. They don't. The clientele for such things consists entirely of men.

Specifically, the men who would just as lief smoke woodshavings or boot shreds, but who labour under the misapprehension that Watermelon Irish Cream Black Cavendish disguises all their other objectionable qualities.
Such as gastric forms of self-expression, unfamiliarity with soap, and conversational turpitude.


NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.



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