COMFORTING MY INNER SPORTS FIEND

This post is about Football, and Pipe Tobacco. Both thoughts on America's Pasttime, and a product review. The Forty Niners did something yesterday, and we're all supposed to worship their tight, tight rumps in form-fitting shiny spandex, much like at the nearest gay bar on Polk Street, which has three wide screens, bless their hearts, except I refuse to do that, or even watch any Football at all, because if I really want so see vigorous action by sturdy backends in shiny fabric, I can darn well watch American wrestling or Les Ballets Russes, celebrating the enduring influence of Messrs. Ivan Clustine and Sergei Pavlovich Diaghilev, as determinative of the performing arts as Joseph Clifford Montana Jr., Jerry Lee Rice, and J. S. Young -- three men of swanlike grace and sprightliness, the gambolling does and fawns of the astroturf.

I smoked a bowl of Astley's No. 2 during yesterday's ball game. The most noticeable feature of this venerable blend is the pong of bergamot and clove, along with faint hints of vinegar and apple. It is, naturally, a somewhat fey product. But very good. Slight touch of Perique, not strong enough in that regard for vigorous tough men with shaggy bushes of hair on their chests, bursting forth out of their shirts which are open to the sternum, with tattoos and piercings, veritable he-men who machismatically love zest!

Medium strength, beguiling, tangy.
A bit on the subtle side.
Old-fashioned.


ASTLEY'S NO. 2 VIRGINIA MIXTURE


Very enjoyable, as a change of pace, but not a must-have in the cellar. There is an open tin at work, which I am slowly depleting. The added perfume is scarce noticeable, and does not detract from the leaf.
A well-made product, rather pleasing.

It offers some comfort to the thoughtful man babysitting wild beasts.


Such as the cigar smokers, one of whom resembled nothing so much as an orang-utan desperately in need of a banana. Who is a middle-aged and well-respected member of the legal branch. Next time the Niners play, I'll bring a banana. It might calm him. Howling ape, rabid babboon, poo-flinging gibbon.
A sports fan. Commendably enthusiastic.
In a dignified way.

Smokes Rocky Patels. As befits a man of taste and class.
I'm not sure, I think he messed himself.
He had a good time.

All over this country, millions of men sit down on Sunday afternoons to watch shiny buns falling all over each other. And probably imagine the comforting feel of cups coated inside and out with Lamisil and Lomotrin.
Plus cornstarch, medicated powder, petroleum jelly, and tolnaftate.
So soft, so silky, so protective, and so totally mold inhibiting.
Don't want the privy parts to smell like wet bread!
A delicate whiff of Bergamot is okay.
Plus a hint of clove.

TOBACCO INDEX


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