HANGING WITH THE DISREPUTABLES

Tomorrow morning my mouth will feel like something crawled in and died a violent death. Yet that is not what I intended. I was calm, I was subdued, and I was modest in my appetites. One pipe in the morning, plain Virginia. It went south from there. We rearranged some of the tobaccos, I opened up a sample tin of something called "Danish Black Vanilla", and because at times I am a disgusting pervert, I loaded up a bowl. In a Dunhill.
Guinea grain or whatever they call that.
Mmm, flavour country!

[Normally I abstain from and abjure the aromatics, as they are a horrid character flaw on the pipe-smoking body, a repulsive sin the like of which causes regretful episodes.]


Didn't smoke another bowl till teatime. The Dunhill Dark Flake has come in. I had to try it. It's somewhat monochromatic, but good stuff.
Then, because it was pipe club night, I smoked three more bowls (two of the Dunhill Dark Flake, one of something who knows what) between then and now, the last two at the cigar bar, one of them after Tom the salesrep wandered in. He's really a very patient man.

[Three glasses of stale coffee with an icecube. Curtis looks at me like I took leave of my senses. He laments my excruciating choice of beverage. He always had doubts.]


It is now after one thirty in the morning. I feel like maybe I should fill a bowl full of Rattray's Dark Fragrant to finish the day. But only because the tin is within arms reach, and I am just a wee bit misguided.

I really shouldn't.

tempting tin.

Evil.





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