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.

Sunday, December 01, 2013


This blogger did NOT intend to spend the entire day with insane people. In fact, there are far better things to do on a lovely crisp Autumn weekend than coddling the mentally deficient, while they yell and scratch themselves.
One could, for instance, have spent it entirely surrounded by books. Which is what one of my friends did. He works in a bookstore, and consequently has been exposed to a better class of people all day.
People who don't smell so bad.
Regular bathers.

I, on the other hand, fiddled around with pipes while the wild monkeys trashed the cigar lounge. It being a sports day an all.

Not sure, but I think our team won. Apparently they beat the stuffing out of a bunch of turkeys from the Midwest. The Detroit Daisies, or perhaps the Missouri Lalas. Or something.
It was epic.


One of the phrases I overheard was "they just shouldn't allow a man to stand there playing midfield with a pickle".

Someone remarked that the tofu tacos at a certain restaurant were really really good. Despite no Mexicans working there.

A third memorable sentence: "he and his mom have hookah parties behind the backs of her husband and his father. That explains the fruity sh*t, both of them think it's just pot".

I can imagine a very close mother-son relationship. Patchouli oil, paisley prints, narghiles, and a tray of delicious halwa. The two of them furtively huffing strawberry mint melba together out on the porch.

Suddenly a man sprints across the lawn holding a pickle.

Possibly a missing Mexican.

You know, pipesmokers are normal people. Sensible, usually, and of above average intelligence. Calm -- most of the time -- sane, balanced, and far more often than you can imagine utterly likable.
There's something about a pipe which appeals to the decent bloke, as well as the well-read person of stable and thoughtful habits, possessed of creative problem solving abilities, insight, rectitude, and humility.

Not so cigars, and cigar smokers. They are a thoroughly frightful bunch. Loud, boastful, vainglorious, and obsessed with petty stuff.
Almost every cigar smoker is sport-obsessed.
Even the women.

I happen to know that ninety two percent of ALL cigar smokers haven't had a bath since Wednesday, and over 85 percent of them ate pizza recently. Venereal disease, leprosy, dermatomycosis, lupus erythematosus, and purulent lesions; all these are common ailments of cigar smokers, and at least one of them has hands which are cold, clammy, and limp. I don't know what he touched recently, but it wasn't alive anymore, and probably hadn't been for at least a day. My only question is where does he keep it when he's out and about. Freak.

Cigar smokers are the type of people who would purchase fruity aromatics, if they decided to experiment with a pipe.

Plainly put: they're all kinds of nasty.


Cleaned and polished sixteen pipes over the weekend. Three cute vintage Charatans, an Upshall, a nice little French 'amuse-doigt', three Italians, and several funky Danes. The Scandinavians use truly first rate carbon rubber, whereas the Charatan stems all betrayed an oxidation-permeability that is exceptionally irritating.

Upshall utilizes top-notch ebonite.

I'm on a largely yoghurt diet right now, due to several misguided experiments since Wednesday with chili peppers. It is soothing.


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