THE FUNK OF SHEER EVIL

As part of my work environment I occasionally come into contact with reprehensible tobaccos. Most of the time it does not faze me.
But at present I feel quite unclean.

This morning I happily waltzed in to work, and was greeted with a sickly odour. My esteemed coworker answered my question by issuing a request that I try the offending weed, and then answer a little on-line survey.
Okay. I'm a glutton for punishment. And up to a challenge.


On a dare once I memorized the entire Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner (by Samuel Taylor Coleridge) in one day.


One hundred and forty three verses. Abysmal doggerel. And very silly to boot. I have an excellent brain, but sometimes common sense is missing from the toolbox. Coleridge has scarred me for life.

There were two samples, one variegated with a fair admixture of Black Cavendish, one pale ribbons of probably Virginia with a bit of Maryland. Same topping. To give them a fair test I smoked two bowls each.
Four bowls in total.

It took me a couple of minutes to identify the fragrance.

Cheap grape candy. Precisely what you would find in a bag of fruit chews or bubble gum. Worse than anything Hello Kitty would smoke -- after her early experiments with McClelland's Honeydew, I have determined that she graduated to mature Virginia flakes, because they go great with tea; she's a beast for tea -- and conceivably the most intellectually repulsive perfume for tobacco EVER!

In the evening, with her sherry, she might indulge in some Samuel Gawith Saint James Flake. She's never told you about that bottle under her bed, has she? When everybody else is asleep, she secretly gets squiffy while enjoying a pipe or two and several tumblers full, reading either wicked romance novels or murder mysteries.
She's quite a naughty beast.
Hidden sherry habit.
Bad girl!


Hello Kitty would savagely bite and scratch if offered what I smoked this morning. And possibly plot foul murder. Go out and buy an assault rifle, empty an entire clip into the vile person presenting the sample.

Grape effing candy. Artificial flavour. Four bowls in all. Smooth, bite-free, and totally degenerate. Had to have some of Russ Oullette's version of Bengal Slices to soothe the trauma. Russ Oullette's crumbly flake is as good a stab as any at that fabled product, and though dressed (he has a queer fascination with top-spray) is delightfully reeky and a cure for what ails you. Wimps may wish to Pousse-café it on a fully rubbed out flake, and like anything with such a generous measure of Latakia it should not be smoked around shoe-collecting types or poets.

[Had a second bowl of Bengal Slices shortly after.
And a third around tea-time.]

There's an open tin of Bengal Slices at work. By Monday it will be empty.
Which will be my doing.


On the other hand, that horrid tooty-fruity cotton candy bazooka bubblegum blowzy trailer slut in the making spoiled brat tart, even if it ever goes into full production, will never enter my pipes again. It is the devil.
Mild and easy to light, no tongue discomfort at all.
Nor the slightest hint of tobacco flavour.
I feel used, and damaged.
Icky.

TOBACCO INDEX


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