REAL MEN, MANLY MEN

Somewhere in Iran a fellow pipesmoker is wandering around his city wondering what the heck happened, why, and what it will mean for his life. The good thing is that he received a care package from that mail-order house via a friend in Beirut recently, so he has enough tobacco to last till April. The bad thing is that the place where he habitually went for hot tea and nibbles after his evening smoke is now ruined, a no longer smouldering pile of rubble next to the agricultural office, and several of his medical colleagues are in the hospital. Which is also quite destroyed. They're underneath it. They were non pipe smokers, and were still inside the building when he left during the middle of the morning a few days ago for a surreptitious puff while fasting.

Things turned south really fast. Because some child-molester in the Big Satan was upset at his speechy-weechy being unwell received, bombers were dispatched. But the tulips are in glorious bloom in the Park For Remembering Our Martyrs.


Meanwhile, in Washington, the Secretary For Gladitorial Combat, is having the best orgasms ever looking at the news footage, oh it is delightful, and the head of the Frathouse For Blotto Investigations (as the orange pervert in chief commands) is equally aroused, though quite blitheringly drunk.

Here in San Francisco we are very distant from the insanity in Washington and Jerusalem. But alas, there are also few places to smoke one's pipe peacefully here. Instead of Trump's Christian end-of-times goombas, we have puritanical yuppie vegans patrolling the streets and snarling disapprovingly at anyone enjoying tobacco or just casually wandering about chomping on a juicy reindeer steak. It is sad.


Real men, as you know, do not smoke pipes. Because it is girlish. Instead they huff big cigars while getting another crusader tattoo, like proper warfighters keen to apocalyptize for Jayzus and Mary Beth at home, plus apple pie, liberty, and the flag.
Pipe smoking is foreign and poofty.

It wasn't very warm earlier when I was outside with my pipe being foreign and poofty, instead, a little chilly, slight breeze. I kept thinking about the finely sculpted lips of that young lady on the bus yesterday afternoon. When glancing at the fairer sex I tend to observe face and hands more than anything else. A face has to reflect character, intelligence, and thoughtfulness for it to be memorable.

Her face was memorable.



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