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.

Friday, November 15, 2013


It's never too late to start smoking a pipe. Even if, by the time you are seventeen, you've already found a sugar-daddy to supply you with cigarettes, you can still reform. And you should, if you intend to do well at college.
Cigarettes are a depraved habit, indulged in by thugs, Hollywood types, and the blonde bimbos who do unspeakable things to the football team.

But pipes are a calm hobby, of sensible people, who seldom get drunk at frat parties and do things that show up on facebook pages.

I've always thought that the reason my high-school classmates were so wanton is because the majority had fallen into the cigarette habit.
Unfortunately, facebook didn't exist in that day and age, so I was never able to confirm that. And, probably like most people who had loose morals, dropped acid, and stank of patchouli over a generation ago, many of them are now snarfing wheatgerm and eating tofu to make up for the damage they've done to their bodies.

There's nothing that will cure their burnt-out minds, however.
No amount of vegan crap brings back dead braincells.

Real women eat meat; it's good for them.

This blogger is a creature of sensible habits and calm restraint. Unlike cigarette smokers, he doesn't go to nightclubs south of Market Street to engage in criminal acts or wild sex with business school graduates.

I've always been thus; during my high school years I was roughly as studious as I needed to be, and read far more than what was required. Consequently, while my classmates were blowing off steam by listening to Pink Floyd and dreaming of excessive behaviours with members of whichever gender seemed opposite enough, I was perusing the pages of fascinating books like Lolita (by Vladimir V. Nabokov), Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure ("Fanny Hill", by John Clelland), Lady Chatterley's Lover (by D. H. Lawrence), Ulysses (by some gibbering Irishman), and sundry wholesome plays by one William Shakespeare.

Yes, those pages ended up tobacco stained.

Literature made a man out of me.

Of course, nothing came of that till I ended up in Berkeley, which is now tofu and wheatgerm heaven. Back then, there were three pipe-stores, and not a single place for beancurd.

Not that I'm in principle opposed to beancurd; it is marvelous drenched in pork shreds and spicy sauce, or stuffed with fatty meat and fishpaste, and deepfried (dust with cornflour first), or even floating in a soup that has bits of bacon and shellfish.

I still haven't found out how to make wheatgerm even halfway edible (no, not experimenting at all), but I'm sure that cows fed on a wholesome diet of wheatgerm taste delicious!

The civilized man or woman of college age eschews cigarettes and beer, and vastly prefers pipes and a glass of sherry. He or she does NOT associate with fratboys or sorority chicks, and has absolutely nothing to do with football players or any other forms of organized mayhem. Proper student types don't eat vegetarian muck -- not even if there's a reasonable chance of getting into someone else's boxers -- but have a marked preference for good cuts of meat, grilled rare, with perhaps a spot of béarnaise sauce for the frites or asparagus, a crisp salad, and a cheese platter afterwards.
Such things inculcate good habits, and give one a perspective on the world which will stand one in good stead in the years to follow.

Boxers, and the getting-into thereof, should be a rational choice, not an act of gustatory desperation.

Cigarette smokers, tofu heads, and wheatgerm dunces are luftmenshen, and probably watch way to much football on weekends. Their children will discover the medicine cabinet and the bottle of bourbon in the kitchen, and end up committing unspeakable acts with tattooed artists. Their neighbors undoubtedly run crack houses, or make crystal meth in the tool shed.

All in all, the company of such disgraceful bourgeois types is mind-numbing, and leads to middle-class dreariness, stunts the intellect, and destroys the imagination. As well as being the sole cause of totally unfulfilling sex.

Proper boys and girls should like pipes.

You're far better off associating with someone like me -- a badger with a preference for blonde Virginias and dusky Orientals -- than with any number of ciggy-huffing fratboys, or the opportunistic sluts in sororities.
Real food, real tobacco, and a nice spot of Amontillado.
Instead of tofu pizza, coffin nails, and Budweiser.
This blogger is propriety personified.
And I do NOT have rabies!

Under the right circumstances, this blogpost could be a salacious proposition. As well as a the beginning of a life-changing event.

It's never too late to pick up a pipe.

I have buckets of free time.

And a cheese plate.


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


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