Saturday, March 17, 2018


It has rained for a week now, and the near-constant wetness has affected people's thought processes. Cold. Somnolence. Massive displays of public drunkenness. That last perhaps connected to a seasonal festival celebrating ethnic something. Wearing green. The police are having a field day.

Put another Protestant on the fire, dear, we shall have a cup of tea.

Northern California is a depressing place right now, and dipsomaniacs wearing soggy leprechaun outfits do not improve things.
Green spandex is not a good look.
If man is by origin a swamp creature, as evolutionary science suggests, you should all be naked.

On second thought, please don't. Pasty white flab undoubtedly smells like boiled cabbage. Black and yellow flab, ditto.

In celebration of Saint Patrick's Day, I should point out that almost the entire line of Peterson pipe tobaccos is shite. Very well made, but shite.
Repulsive testimonials to degeneracy.

A brief run-down, for readers not familiar with the genre:

ARAN: vanilla and floral perfume. CONNEMARA BLACK: cherry black Cavendish. CONNOISSEUR'S CHOICE: tropical fruits, vanilla, and booze. De LUXE MIXTURE: aromatic nut liqueur, vanilla, honey. FOUNDER'S CHOICE: rum, mango, vanilla. GOLD BLEND: hickory nuts, vanilla, cinnamon. IRISH DEW: vanilla, flower perfume, chocolate, whiskey. LUXURY BLEND: black Cavendish vanilla and honey. NUTTY CUT: macadamia nuts, coconut, rum. SHERLOCK HOLMES: assorted stone fruits and citrus. SUNSET BREEZE: Amaretto liqueur.
SWEET KILLARNEY: sweet caramel cream.

There are also Christmas and Holiday mixtures, plus Summertime blends, Special Reserves, and Saint Patrick's Day tobaccos. All of these products are aromatics. Mango, rum, vanilla, cream liqueur, honey, coffee, chocolate, and caramel. Lots of black Cavendish and cooked Burley.

Jayzus, ya heathens, Jayzus!

And stop blaming the Germans and Danes who make this crap for you, just admit that whorehouse smells are needed to overwhelm the putrid reek of your unwashed mildewed bodies AND the stink of cabbage.

It's all a form of escapism, writ large. The bog men yearn for the tropics.
Warmth, sunshine, and sultry perfumes.
I get it.

To properly mark Saint Patrick's Day, I opened up a tin of Murray's Erinmore Flake from my stash. It was over thirteen years old, and the tobacco sugars had expressed themselves upon the outer surfaces of the darkened slices.
Smoked the first bowl of it in a silver mounted straight billiard made in Dublin over half a century ago.

Had it with a cup of strong tea, while listening to the rain.
It was quite utterly lovely.


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