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.

Saturday, August 09, 2014

BREASTS AND THE AUGUST MEETING OF THE PIPE CLUB

Regular readers could be somewhat ired at my frequent showcasing of the perverse searches that bring new readers to this blog, especially as it reflects somewhat less than flatteringly on their own loyalty. Most of my material is refreshingly boring and mundane, they may feel, so why give any airtime to the degenerates, perverts, and Presbyterians?
Surely those folks do not deserve it?
There's more to life than that.


Well, there is.  But one recent depraved search is near to my heart.


TEENAGE JAPANESE CLEAVAGE

Good lord, man, how on earth did that bring you to this outpost of the internet? Teenage Japanese cleavage has never been a theme here, though it may have been mentioned once in connection with a discourse on Manga meant for a young Japanese male audience. And even then there were no pictures, diagrams, or schematics.
No actual descriptions either.

The internet is filled to overflowing with sites far more devoted to bringing you your fetish titty, as well as food, and kitten pictures.

There may even be a bosom or two somewhere in the bowels of I CAN HAS CHEESBURGER. Whether it's attractive or not I cannot say, it depends on you. It might even be Japanese. Go there and investigate. Give it your best shot. Peruse. Examine. Research.
Do your due diligence.

Just google it if you don't know where it is.

Oh wait. That's a mistake. Doing so brought you here.
Where there is no Teenage Japanese Cleavage.

Yes, I know; you are farklempt.
I sympathize.


AND NOW, SERIOUS REPORTAGE

Normal readers will probably be wondering why I am sitting in front of the computer at this hour on a Saturday night, when by all rights they should expect me to be at the local cigar bar with my Scotch and water, lighting up a pipefull of matured Virginia tobacco, and sagely holding forth on the ills of the world.
Gaza, Iron Dome, starving Yazidis on a hillside in Irak, the European depravities, Russians shooting down plane-loads of Dutchmen and Malays, Tofu, Vegan plots, and the latest rape scandals in India.
Crap like that.

Normally I would be.

Except that on Wednesday I managed to poison myself. I'm still a bit affected by it. Not entirely up to my usual fifty-five year-old snuff.
And not quite as full of piss and vinegar.

See, there were over forty pipes that needed cleaning, so I removed the carbon rubber stems and dumped them in bleach for two hours, which loosens the oxidation. Afterwards you can simply rub off the grime, and though the rubber will feel gritty (the oxidation was part of the material, consequently its removal leaves microscopic pits), it will now be suitable for buffing the crap out of to make it gleam all shiny black again.
What I do while the stems are soaking is pour alcohol into the bowls to loosen tars and carbon, so that a quick ream of the cake (carbon layer), and a scrubbing of the inside of the shank with a thready thing and bristly pipe cleaners, will render the briar smokeable again.

After an episode a few weeks ago when I ended up with chemical burns on my fingers because I had also employed Zippo fluid to dissolve the grease on the outer surfaces -- doing so bleaches the wood slightly, but a subsequent application of wax and polish makes it more beautiful and old-fashioned looking than before -- and had, in consequence, entirely leached out the protective skin-oils from the aforementioned fingers, leaving them quite painfully subject to bleach penetration, I postponed playing with lighter fluid till after the stems were ready.


Briefly back to breasts: On the bus ride home this evening, there were at least twelve young and possibly teenage Korean breasts -- that's exactly six sets, or matching pairs -- and any (even) number of other mammary glands of various origins. No, I cannot describe the cleavages, because my hands were cold and investigation would have been startling.
Entirely aside from which I meditate on the journeys to and from Marin. Crawl inside my own head, slow down both breathing and heart-beat,
and find the centre of my consciousness.
Or read everyone else's mind.
It's exercise.


Over forty stems. Which had not been tended to in decades.
Rub rub rub. Rinse rinse rinse.
Lots of bleach.

Then paper towels soaked in Zippo.
And a bit of sand papering.

By tea-time I had to retire to the office, to lie on the floor drenched in sweat and weakly mumbling for an hour or two. Jaw, neck tendons and the muscles in my arms feeling like someone else was pulling at them.
No nausea, no chest pains, no blurry vision, no throbbing head.
Just twitching, buckets of perspiration, and general lassitude.
I may not have been quite sane during that time.

Over forty stems.

Lots of ventilation, but still.

Forty plus stems, and skin exposure.


Okay, yes, I know now that I should use gloves. In the past I have always strenuously avoided surgical gloves, even when making gallons of Habanero hotsauce at home -- ask me sometime about spending an hour buck-naked under a cold shower because even though I washed my hands thoroughly before taking a leak there were (unpleasant) consequences -- as I really need to feel what I am doing.
But apparently nitrile gloves ARE sensitive. An emergency room surgeon who is a fellow-member of the pipe club tells me so.
Almost nobody uses latex anymore.

I found this out on Thursday evening after the meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club. About a dozen mature gentlemen had gathered for an informative discussion of a famous old blend -- Presbyterian Mixture -- and the sharing of various nicely aged VaPers, plus the inevitable tin of Arcadia. There's always Arcadia. Someone has fifty three tins of it.
After it was over he and I had drinks at the Occidental.
I was still feeling a bit askew, and told him why.

[Interstice: Presbyterian Mixture was first compounded for Reverend John White, who was a most moral man, despite my fond fantasy that he was a savage brute in charge of a girl's reformatory and loved nothing better than birching the tender subjects under his care. Presbyterian sounds stern and severe, but this mixture is anything but, being a refined riot of Macedonian and ribbon-cut aged Virginia. All in all a decadent and obscene product, that only self-indulgent orgiasts (like, perhaps, Stanley Baldwin, a prime minister) would secretly enjoy, in private, so that none should suspect them of queer practices. I cannot imagine smoking this constantly. The last time I opened a tin my apartment mate came beetling out of her room like a bat out of hell at three o'clock in the morning and accused me of several things, finishing with the command that I should go smoke that vile product out at the abandoned church with the bums and the raccoons. Beast! It is a rather pleasant smoke, evenso. It is not at all like Erinmore Flake, which is the whore of Babylon of tobaccos. 
The only reason why I mention them at the same time is because I enjoy saying 'Presbyteeeeeerian' in the same sneering tone as 'whoooooore of Babylon'. I also particularly like the word 'glandered', except that there is no tobacco yet to which that epithet can be applied. Suggestions are welcome.]

There was some wine and port at the meeting, very nice.
Also cheese and grapes, plus cookies.
I like cookies.

I lit up my first pipe of the day shortly after seven and joined the boys. When we left a few hours later, there was a dense fog hanging in the room, from several pipes which had been smoked.
Quite marvelous, and very civilized.

I suppose if you were a non-pipesmoker, you would have found the conversation most dreadfully boring, but there was only one of those present, and she was off in a corner enjoying herself with her cell-phone.
I hope we see her again; she was very pleasant.
She only sneezed once.

Anyhow, that was all middle of the week. On Friday I was still a bit affected, Saturday too. So I deemed it best to stay in tonight, and behave myself.

Which is how I discovered the Teenage Japanese Cleavage.
Quite a splendid contradictory word-combination.
Cleavage suggests "more than".
But it's Japanese.
So "less".

[By the way, the term "teenage", in all contexts on this blog, implies a person who is legally old enough to buy tobacco products. Such as Presbyterian Mixture (Orientals and flue-cured leaf, plus a modicum of Latakia), Erinmore Flake (mostly pressed flue-cured with a peculiar fruity flavouring), St. James Flake (my tin, several years old, marvelously pongy, black and laden with Perique), Arcadia (a medium McClelland Oriental mixture with a substantial fan-base), London Mixture (medium-full Dunhill English mixture which is the only pipe tobacco our oldest member smokes), either Samarra or Cairo by Greg Pease (Oriental mixtures, well compounded), several VaPers, and at least two aromatics. Eighteen or older.]

Further pursuant chlorine poisoning and surgical gloves, we also discussed folds of flesh, morbidly obese people, heart failure due to weight, a patient who was six hundred pounds, and the opportunistic fungal infections that thrive in moist warm skin zones, such as between the toes, in the groin, between the folds of flab where one may also find a supply of soda crackers which the patient could be hoarding, and underneath the breasts when the mammaries are of a size. Teenage Japanese Cleavage seldom, if ever, gets to that point. It's a genetic thing. I doubt that that was the focus of the internet search, however.

As a thin person, I find large breasts a bit scary.
Which they are. Probably carnivorous.
I never read Playboy.

You should know that large breasts benefit from a well-made brassiere not only because of support, but also because the garment whicks away the moisture. Which is especially useful in warm parts of the world, like Marin County and Oakland. You can also dust the area with medicated foot powder or a little corn starch.

If faced with Teenage Japanese Cleavage, the previously mentioned Presbyterian minister might consider powdered sugar better.
He was a degenerate, I am convinced of that.
His blend says so.

I am a clean wholesome man, and have never seen Teenage Japanese Cleavage, and I rarely smoke Presbyterian Mixture.
I feel guilty when I do.


AN HONEST AFTERWORD

In the interests of total disclosure, I will admit that Teenage (eighteen or older) Japanese Cleavage is undoubtedly a fascinating subject, worthy of serious attention by all manner of pervs and pipe smokers. And while I thoroughly enjoy smoking a pipe -- which, according to well-informed Berkeleyites, Vegans, and Tofu-snarfing earthmoms, kills puppies and little children -- it has been a while since I had the opportunity to inspect cleavage of any sort or derivation from close-up. Cleavage, Japanese or otherwise, is not presently an important element in my universe.
The lack of cleavage affects my welt-anschauung.
But it does not fill me with angst.
It just is.

In further total disclosure, these are the pipe tobaccos I have smoked in the past few months: Elizabethan Mixture, Samuel Gawith's Best Brown Flake, Samuel Gawith's Full Virginia Flake, Greg Pease's Abingdon, Wessex Red Virginia Flake, Wessex Brown Flake, Escudo, The Rotary Navy Cut, HH Latakia Flake, Samuel Gawith Bracken Flake, 1792, Niemeyer's Vier Heeren Baai, Capstan, Three Nuns, McClelland's Black Shag, Hearth and Home's Black House, Greg Pease's Union Square, Greg Pease's Telegraph Hill, Greg Pease's Navigator, Greg Pease's Sextant, Greg Pease's Gaslight, Greg Pease's Cairo, Davidoff Flake Medallions, Rattray's Old Gowrie, Rattray's Brown Clunee, Rattray's Hal O' The Wynd, Rattray's Professional Mixture, Dunhill Three Year Matured Virginia, Peter Stokkebye Luxury Navy Flake, Arango's Balkan Supreme, several mixtures of my own devising ranging from mild flue-cured amalgamations to Lat bombs, and a bunch of bizarre oddments from Altadis.

In that same period, the oldest member of the Golden Gate Pipe Club has smoked London Mixture and nothing else.
He's a remarkable man.

He's probably the only one of us who may have ever been exposed to any Teenage Japanese Cleavage, what with being a retired surgeon and all...
but I doubt it made a significant impact on him.
Seeing as it was in a professional context.
And he's happily married.


For some strange reason, several of the other members are not married. No, Teenage Japanese Cleavage has nothing to do with that either. The plain fact of the matter is that many women fiercely resent pipes, pipe tobacco, and the simple enjoyment of a civilized habit. I really don't know what it is. Perhaps they would rather we devote our energies to purses, shoes, Hello Kitty, tofu, puppies, and the not killing of little children in Berkeley.

We did NOT discuss breasts. Of ANY size, shape, or type. If I had only known at the time that breasts might come bouncing to the roiling surface of internet-consciousness (or at the very least manifest themselves as a search-criterium of importance), I could have brought them up for all the members to register their voice.
I'm sure everyone except the two medical men would have had strong and informed opinions, which would have proven enlightening.
I could have shared them here.

Be that as it may, we remain positive about things.
Pipesmokers are cheerful individuals.
With a sunny outlook on life.




TOBACCO INDEX


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

  • At 1:51 PM, Anonymous Anonymous said…

    And when are you doing a presentation on Japanese breasts for the debauchees of the pipe club? I'll fly back from the east coast just for that one.

    M

     

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