IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD

At the bus stop the other night a busybody insisted on informing me that what was in my pipe at the time was unpleasant to his delicate nostrils.
I moved away from him, and continued smoking.
It was an excellent aged Virginia.
Honey-like, and figgy.

"Gee that stinks ooh!"

So do many things about you, young fellow, but I'm keeping my mouth shut. Let's start with your horribly hip clothing choices, and end with your selfrighteously hatefilled superior attitude.
But as mentioned, I kept quiet.

"Why are you polluting this beautiful city?!?"

The ashes and remaining shreds are bio-degradable, the smoke is carried away on the breeze, and we're near a main road, which may explain the gasoline fumes. It's a mightily industrial reek.
And let us not forget the canine poo.

"You're just killing yourself!"

I may be in my fifties, but I look far less like the living-dead than you. And I'm vibrantly alive. Full of piss and vinegar. Beans. Zest and engagement. Pepper. Perkiness.
Besides, less than one out of ten smokers get lung cancer and more than 50% of lung cancer victims never smoked. Pipe and cigar aficionados are less cancer-prone than cigarette addicts or potheads. And the prospect that I might die should comfort you and all your kind.

"As well as everyone around you!!!"

Not true. You are still talking. And reports about second-hand smoke simply show that some scientists are easily swayed by missionary funding, and bent sideways by tofu-headed praeconceptiva. And there are interest groups who sponsor "research" to back their agendas.
I did not say this, merely thought it.
And resolutely ignored him.

He finally left, heading uphill.

And I enjoyed my pipe in peace.


It was a beautiful moonlit evening. Right around eleven o'clock. The only thing that could have possibly made it better would have been a reserved young female intellectual, perhaps slightly Asperger-Syndromy or shy and introverted, with a book, reading underneath the streetlight while smoking her own pipe. A nice Oriental mixture.


A night perfect for dreams.


Not sermons.




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