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, July 01, 2013


Many women go into relationships assuming that curves and a bit of nooky will be enough to keep their man happy and quiescent. Or at least shut him up, for hours on end. Slack-jawed, smiling. Not so when you date a pipe-smoker. Men with pipes are made of sterner stuff.

[IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: Pipe-smokers actually would love curves and a bit of nooky now and then.
But that is neither here nor there. It isn't the point of this post in any case. Curves and a bit of nooky.]

For one thing, they aren't really into pizza and the ball-game.
Consequently they won't have friends over on Sunday.
You might actually have to make conversation.
I know! Too ghastly to contemplate!

Most women are just not up to the task. They were counting on at least ONE day a week during which they could shop for handbags and shoes until they reach orgasm, after which they and their gaggle of girlfriends could head over to The Lobster Grotto to inhale melted butter and ogle that boy-toy Spanish waiter with the snake hips and rock-hard tush.
Intellectually, they just aren't ready to talk.

The same rule applies to dating a pipe-smoker as taking up pipe-smoking yourself.
Namely: 'if you weren't neurotic before, you will be soon'.
For heavens' sakes, he's thoughtful!
How perfectly horrid!

There are other things very nearly as disturbing, even depressing, about men who smoke pipes. Unlike standard-issue husband material, they tend to be like finger-prints: each one is unique.
As well as responsive to stimuli.

Most pipe-smokers have a faint to strong odour of tobaccos on their person at nearly all times. It might be something delightfully smoky, like a Latakia blend, or something markedly herbal in the aged Virginia category. If you're lucky, it will be tropic fruits and caramel. That type of pipe-smoker is nearly as brain-dead as the average male, and while there are moments when he may crave conversational interaction, it will just be idle chatter about videogames, Nascar, or Star Trek.
Overly aromatic tobaccos don't require a mind.

The worst ones are the types that can't settle on just one blend. You never know what that smell is, nor what they're likely to talk about. Any of the clever gambits that the average woman typically uses to calm down a normal man just cannot succeed.
"There there, little wombat", you will say, "things will be ALL right."
There there. Problem is that he's too complex for plain and simple existential angst, and thus your reassuring waffle will NOT work.
It wasn't angst, and if you continue thinking that it was, he will wonder at your sanity, and likely consider you mentally defective.

He won't say anything. But he'll think it.
It's the beginning of disaster.

"There there, little wombat; things will be all right!"

"Good lord, she's as dumb a dingo. I should know by know that big bosoms mean small brains."

A pipe-smoker will NEVER settle down into sports-watching pizza-snarfing dude-dom. That's what suburban types and folks from New Jersey are for. Instead, they're rather like the Europeans, but not nearly so arrogant or German.

Pipe-smoking inculcates clean habits, considerate behavior, an active mind, and generally speaking, a more intellectual approach to sexual relations. That last one means that they will habitually think pre-emptively and pro-actively. "If I give her something nice to eat", they might assume, "I may get her into the mood to watch Monty Python". After which we'll quote John Cleese and Eric Idle at each other while slowly melting. And then, the COMFY PILLOW!
No one expects the comfy pillow.

One the other hand, if you're the kind of woman who likes the Spanish Inquisition Sketch, or uttering the words "he's NOT the Messiah, he's a very naughty boy", go ahead and date a pipe-smoker. But don't say you weren't warned. He might turn into a Scotsman before your very eyes.
Or a blanc-mange.
Or both.


This blogger smokes a pipe, by the way. It's one of my more lovable habits. So far it has kept women away in droves, why, vast herds of the creatures have fled screaming southward towards San Mateo, where there are lots of nice safe pizza-snarfing sports maniacs. Or they've thundered off in the direction of Oakland and the Eastbay, where they can tearfully fall into the arms of drugdealers, streetthugs, and drunken frat-boys from Berkeley. People, I have good reason to believe, who are more their type.
For the past few years I have not been set upon by women.
I haven't been pressured into pizza or sports.
Or forced to go on shopping trips.
It's been 'peaceful'.

Albeit a bit too quiet at times.


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All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


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