SWEET MELLOW MAN AND MEANSPIRITED ANCIENT PASTRY

Last night I stepped out into the freezing cold for a last smoke. Moments after I lit my pipe, with fingers rapidly turning blue and hands trembling from the arctic blast, I became aware of a blonde woman in her forties glaring at me. Specifically, at my pipe. Now, let me clarify: public street. Extreme cold. Long after dark. No children nearby, nor, for that matter, any mobs of sensitive gluten phobic lactose intolerant vegetarians. Plenty of space. Just this other person safely far enough away that it was extremely unlikely that delicate tendrils of smoke would offend her.

I heard her mutter: "Jesus, tobacco!"

Why you dessicated frump, would you be better pleased if it were marijuana? What if I told you that this puts me on a plane with spiritual native Americans? It's meditative!
Sense my saintly aura!

Sometimes, tobacco is magic. That last smoke of the day turns me into the nicest gentleman, with kindly warm thoughts toward all. Apparently it turned little miss pancake make-up over there into a sour old pizza crust.

My piles bleed for you, lady. I'm smoking outside, and I'm cold.
You have no reason to be here. I don't see a dog.
Just keep walking. You need not glare.

Please think of tofu.
Om, santi santi.

A pipeful, even out in nasty weather, puts me at peace with the world.
It's a complex interplay of aesthetic stimuli and mood prompts.
Very much like happy hobbits in a Tolkien tale.
Just about giddy with glee.
Squealing.



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