THE LIFE STYLE OF THE SKUNK

There's nothing quite like strong coffee and a bowlful of something heavy on Latakia tobacco early in the morning. Except, of course, that when one lives with other people, there are likely to be loud indignant squawks. The outrage is palpable. It's Sunday, for creep sakes! Why are you making the world a far worse place, and so early in the morning too! Man, that stuff is foul, take it outside, go to the abandoned church up the street, blow your ghastly hell-fumes there!

And take that corncob out of your mouth.
You look utterly blessed ridiculous.
Let me tell you where to put it.


I am at present breaking-in a Missouri Meerschaum (corncob) with strong Latakia blends.


Totally delicious, exquisite and refined. I am having a blast, but my apartment-mate thinks that I am a pervert. Yes, she's not my significant other, merely a small opinionated forest creature (errrm, Cantonese American female) with whom I live, and not being in any way romantically involved with her I should probably not care too much about the smells and her vociferous objections.

A wife or a girlfriend should be heard. It is conceivable that their opinion about tobacco habits might have some weight. Not likely, especially if they are non-smokers, but possible. Remotely.
They are graciously given a voice, though not a veto.
Apartment mates and concerned neighbors, however, are not really relevant. Especially not the neighbors, as in San Francisco these are usually venomous sodding bastard anti-smoking fanatics, whose fragile peace of mind is disturbed by the merest trace of tobacco, foods that aren't tofu, clouds of war upon the horizon, and anyone having any fun at all.
Leastways fun of which they do not approve.
Recycling is acceptable fun.
So is weeping.


Apartment mates, if well-chosen, are somewhat more important than that. Slightly. These aren't her lungs and nostrils, but I will concede that her opinions matter to me. She's a very sweet girl, even if she is seeing a person of whom I disapprove, and her mother would also if the old harridan were sentient (instead of comatose in an assisted care facility).

When the apartment mate is NOT around, I firmly close the door to her room, open up windows, and stink like a maniac. Mmmmmm, Latakia! Virginia! Turkish! Maryland! And pimp - whore- chesthair Burley! So in heaven!
Three or four hours of airing out with plenty of ventilation, and she won't notice a darn thing. She usually does not return until after seven in the evening.
But, unfortunately, she's always around early in the morning.
Which is really when I keenly wish to stink.
I have great self-control.


At this moment, I am saintly, and do not yet smell.

Soon, babies, soon.

TOBACCO INDEX


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