THERE'S TOXIC WASTE IN MY SWAMP

While I spent all day in Marin, in the distinctly un-gentle company of cigar smokers, my ex-girlfriend stayed at home engaging in what she euphemistically calls "sleep bleeding". Rather than detailing what that precisely is -- because some of my male readers are uber-sensitive individuals -- I shall merely say that Aunt Flo visited.
As she does once a month.

This is something I would like to have happen to the cigar smokers in Marin. Instead, they enjoyed a nice sportive show on television, and many curse words were uttered. Not sure if I should call that "fun", as watching a ball game on the boob tube is a far worse trial than any amount of "sleep bleeding", but those freaks thoroughly enjoyed it.
I tried to drown out their insane shouting by running the buffing wheels all afternoon, restoring several pipes, but in the background was the constant carnivore feeding sound of America's past-time.

[Fortunately I have Mondays and Tuesdays to myself. To the very best of my knowledge, there are never any sporting events on those days. Or on Fridays (also a day off).]


Now, lest you assume that this is no more than my usual screed against the stogey-chomping psychos of Marin (and elsewhere), and a sneering boast that pipe-smokers represent the very acme of sensible behaviour, the Ultima Thule of civilization in all its splendiferous glory, I hasten to claim 'not so'.

[Yes, I am a pipe smoker. And I like to think of myself as 'splendiferous'. But not all are thus.]


NOT SO!

The owner of the pipes I restored favours a syrupy mixture which is fifty percent mango-flavoured tobacco, and over a third black vanilla Cavendish.
It is nauseatingly sweet, and deposits a hard gummy tar, in addition to burning hot and randomly carbonizing briar. I would describe it as the AntiChrist of pipe mixtures, if I didn't know that there were plenty of far worse products out there. But it IS the "sleep bleed" of tobaccos.
Some people just naturally have extraordinary bad taste.
All that sports addles their tiny brains.
They crave self-abuse.


These are male trollops with diseased habits.
And highly aromatic pipe tobacco.

I am a very temperate man. My tobacco is unscented, and completely honest. There is no candy store reek adhering to my indulgence.
I am horrified by the concept.

I am clean-minded.

And clean.


Sleep-bleeding. It's what I'm thinking about.
But there are worse things.



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