Sunday, January 07, 2018


There are times when I appreciate the cigar crowd far less than is perhaps justified. Then there are times when they seem like a bunch of neurotic old farts, such as when they whine about the lighting or the heat or the absence of a pillow. They just aren't comfy, their soup is missing, and why does this stogey taste for all the world like ass?

That last is easily answered. You're a cheapskate, you bought a box of puros excrementados de Habana off the internet because the price was right, and ass might be the only thing you're capable of tasting in any case.
And you huff them too fast.
Face it, you are old, you're bloated, what hair you have left is white and disarrayed, your bottom looks like a fifty pound sack of potatoes in those pants, and they're probably rotten because you sag in strange places.

So of course I had to wonder when loud and persistent vocalization erupted from the lounge behind me as I was dealing with pipe stems. It sounded like one of them had finally had the first orgasm in years.

It was, as it turns out, sports related.

How disappointing.

Those boys are easily excited. When they are finally carted off to the assisted care facility the nurses will have their hands full, and severely limit their caffeine and sugar intake.

In the meantime, they are all stable geniuses.
And need their own gorilla channel.

Last pipe while at work: Fillmore, by Greg Pease. Thick-sliced broken flake, Scottish in style. Red Virginia combined with Perique.
It was extremely nice.

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