Wednesday, November 12, 2014


Some readers come here by looking for answers to all the wrong questions. Usually what they find stares them right back in the face, and wiggles its tongue out at them. "What", they may have asked, "can I do to get the lovely Kumiko to jump into the sack with my dessicated old self?" And the answer is "pray for a miracle, you nasty old prune". Trust me. I have a direct line to Kumiko. She can't stand your ass. Loathes it, despises it, hates it utterly, and wishes you not only stop breathing heavily whenever she's around, but stop breathing altogether.
She doesn't know WHERE you got that naked picture of her from.
But she suspects that photoshop had a role in it.
Never-the-less, it's embarrassing.

Naked pictures are always embarrassing. There are none of me. I am never naked when there are cameras around. Or cell-phones.
I don't even own a cell-phone.

Imagine how painful it would be if I was naked, and someone else had a cell-phone. And it rang.

"Oh hello." "No, nothing." "Nah, I'm just here with my friend... who is a naked middle-aged man with a pipe in his mouth and a silly smirk on his face." "Describe him?   
I couldn't. You'll just have to see for yourself."


And within minutes her father decides that I am not the right man for his daughter. Yeah, she's old enough to make her own decisions now. And her own ghastly mistakes. It's her life. But no. This one is just wrong.
Time to hang up the wanted posters. Hire a hitman. Or hitwoman.
Cell-phones can be a problem when there is nudity.
Always, ALWAYS, wear something.
Hide your sinfulness.
Don't smirk.


Anyhow, the other day someone found my blog by posting the query "are aromatic tobaccos less manly?" To which the answer is 'yes'. Yes, they jolly-well are. Aromatic tobaccos are a sign of posturing depravity, weak spine, and a lack of vital juices. The Kremlin had a hand in their development, and generations of men who were fooled into smoking that garbage eventually became nauseating old sex-maniacs, waggling their hairless behinds in sleazy hotel rooms, shaking their wattles at innocent schoolgirls, and desperately hoping the mega-dose of Viagra wouldn't fail them this time. Anyone who smokes aromatics habitually has no taste, no intellect, and quite likely possesses all the manners and morals of a prancing Yorkshire hod-carrier.
Likely they will catch diseases from toilet seats.
Rot from the inside out before dying.
Vote the solid Jesus ticket.

Almost all the people I know who smoke fruit-flavoured pipe-tobacco have shallow little minds, countless depravities, rotten gums, and stained underwear. They whip themselves nightly. There's a collection of spiked rubber garments under their beds. They weep without reason.
They have existential crises.

A real man smokes either English mixtures -- Latakia and Turkish on a basis of Virginia leaf -- or restrained and civilised flakes or VaPers (Virginia blends with a smidge of Perique tobacco).
A real woman does likewise.

Aromatic tobaccos are, by definition, not real.
Good tobacco does not need fruity sauce.
Aromatics are syphilis set aflame.

Yes, some very good friends smoke aromatics. I keep telling myself that they're doing so ironically.

One of the nastiest things I know is fifty percent Mango Cavendish, with the rest golden cherry-vanilla ribbon. It is a very popular product. I've never been able to finish more than half a bowl.
A perfectly beastly tobacco.


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