At the back of the hill

Warning: May contain traces of soy, wheat, lecithin and tree nuts. That you are here
strongly suggests that you are either omnivorous, or a glutton.
And that you might like cheese-doodles.
Please form a caseophilic line to the right. Thank you.

Thursday, January 24, 2013


There are several things I have learned over the years not to do. Things which other people might never even consider doing, but in some ways I am still the same person I was when I was a little boy acting unwisely.
As irresponsible idiot juveniles are wont to be.

One of those things I learned this very morning.
At my age I should've already known.
It's a steep learning curve.


Boxer shorts, no problem. Nothing can go very wrong there. Reason being the direction from which they slide onto the middle-aged body. Intuitively most men and some women know how it's going to go, the progression is fairly predictable.
Wife beater ('A' shirt), other story.

The pipe juts out at an angle.

You can see what the issue may be.
Especially if the smoker is still a wee bit unawake.

In consequence of which I now have a truly vicious cinder-burn on the second left toe -- the one right next door to the gouty big one -- precisely above the flexor digitorum brevis, and soot marks on what was otherwise a sparkling clean wife beater ('A' shirt).

The burn is near a mosquito bite which I want to scratch.
I am presently 'frustrated'.

Fortunately I managed to save the bowl, and it was still lit when I picked it up from under the bed, where it had rolled. A perfectly smoking load of Wessex Red Virginia Flake, incredibly delicious.
I knew you were worried.

A short while ago there was a handsome middle-aged badger wandering around the apartment with a pipe in snout, wearing a wife beater ('A' shirt), zesty boxer shorts with a pleasing plaid pattern, and slacks. Plus socks and shoes, in case there were still some hot ashes near the bed.

Limping. Not wandering. Can't wander with a limp.
Uttering foulness in a foreign tongue.
I hardly ever mutter curses.
Clothes! Hmmph!

*      *      *

Years ago I learned not to smoke a pipe while shaving. At the time I figured that as only the area around the beard would be soapy, not the whiskers themselves, it was a brilliant idea. Two birds with one stone. Shaving foam wouldn't touch the pipe (it didn't). And I took great care not to jostle the briar while scraping off the bristles.
Didn't even cut myself.
Good job.

Everything went smoothly.

Then I splashed on aftershave.

Bit through the stem in one sudden clench.

Pipe into a sink of soapy water and shaving muck.

But only after bouncing on the rim of the sink, and popping a wad of burning tobacco into my crotch. I cannot remember what I was smoking at the time.

My apartment mate asked what on earth was happening, as she had heard the yowling and the screams.

When someone asks you from the other side of the bath room door whether 'everything is allright in there', the answer is ALWAYS "yes". Yes, nothing is going on.
Please go away.
Everything is fine, really. This is what is supposed to happen in here.

There are several other "multi-tasks" which any amount of common sense should tell you not to attempt, which we need not go into.

See, young lady, that's why you need to have me as your boy friend.
Hours of entertainment watching me do stupid things.

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