UNNATURAL CHILD BIRTH
I am a victim of mister Pink Pants.
As well as a refugee from a Somerset Maugham noveletta.
Far too many people in this world are named ‘Dweezil’.
It really didn’t help that Harry suggested clothing adjustments, or that Seeing Eye seconded the motion. Nobody – and I stress this, NOBODY – wants to see pasty male thighs underneath Daisy Duke shorts.
Except for those two.
As Seeing Eye explained “not my outfit, so what do I care?”
He and Harry are sometimes even worse sh*t disturbers, as cigar-smoking deviants go, than you.
The stain on his leg had something to do with a moving man.
No, I didn’t ask. There are some things I prefer not to know.
Apparently the adventure with the movers was months ago.
I shall not remind you in any way of Lewinski’s cocktail dress.
The only bright spot was when Architect George showed up. As soon as he lit his cheroot (can you say “phallic”?), the pigeons started arriving. Several greasy-looking birds circled him at a distance, staring at him malevolently. They obviously remember what a mean bastard he was several weeks ago, when he jumped up and down screaming hysterically and chased them away from his tuna salad sandwich. Mercifully, today A-George was quite unaware of the feathered gangsters on the sidewalk, stalking him below his line of sight. I wouldn’t be surprised if the birds ganged up on his black leather Santa Booties after I left.
He may be hobbling around even now on bloodied stumps.
Never! be mean to pigeons; they’ve got nothing to live for.
I’m rooting for the pigeons, by the way. They’ve got spunk.
At least we now know what you were up to. You were helping Whippiedip’s young lady give birth. It’s her first, so we know that it’s difficult.
Baby cigar-smokers don’t come out easy.
That was very white of you, podner, I couldn't have done it.
You probably had to tempt it forth with a Honduran.
Perhaps a Nicaraguan. Or a pre-embargo Cuban?
How disappointing if it was only a clove cigarette!
All baby pictures look better with a big fat Churchill.
It highlights the dimensions & accentuates the pinkness.
Please congratulate Whippie on our behalf, and for crapsakes stop sending e-mails detailing your recent obsession with goats, and men on all fours. We’re wondering about your sanity. The chicken letters were bad enough.
Honestly, you cigar smokers are an odd lot.
UNLIKE PIPE SMOKERS!
Partook of something delightfully zesty today, heavy on the Louisiana leaf: St. James Flake, by Samuel Gawith.
It’s been three years since I last cracked a tin, and what a pleasure it is.
Full-bodied, with a pleasing Perique tang.
Plums, prunes, fields of golden wheat, and a faint whiff of white vinegar.
It’s a good brown press that will appeal to many VaPer aficionados, but probably not to fans of blonde flakes.
Like all good cakes it should be rubbed and dried a bit before stuffing it into your briar.
Did that yesterday evening. My hands smelled heavenly.
If you are a cigar-smoker, you may not have a clue what I’m talking about.
Please don’t worry.
With assiduous study of ESL, it will eventually become clear to you.
May take a while, though.
We have patience, we can wait.
We’re pipe smokers.
Remember, when cigar smokers die, they re-incarnate as pigeons.
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