"In my day, there were no lightsabers! Jedi Knights fought with rocks! There's a lot of damage that you can do with a rock! And 'The Force' had not been invented yet; we had Aramis for men and that was it! Plus Lucky Strike Cigarettes! Now get OFF my lawn!"
In some imaginary universe, Grugo is a salesman, or at least endorses beer, cigarettes, and soft drinks, as well as women's pajamas with inappropriate slogans like "Merry Christmas, you bad boy!" or "Happy Holidays With Folgers!". As well as more mundane products. Dermal cleanser. Plumber services on call. Stan your neighborhood air duct man. Pipe tobacco.
Great American blends.
BAILEY'S FRONT PORCH
Burley, Latakia, Perique, Virginia.
Smoky, mellow, sweet, and earthy. A pensive blend for old-fashioned people. Sometimes the Virginia adds a tanginess when you don't expect it, sometimes it doesn't. It is a very old-school product, and may whomp you with the nicotine. Especially early in the morning.
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, and Virginia.
Robust, and extremely likeable, like a sailor on shore leave. The tin note is tangy, and makes me remember summers long ago. Yeasty. Hay and wild grasses. A lovely product that leaves you feeling satisfied; you will not need to smoke anymore for a while. Have some tea after puffing this.
Or lunch. Definitely lunch.
Burley, Latakia, Virginia.
Sweet, creamy, with a very slight spiciness. If you suck furiously, the sweetness fades and the Latakia jumps out at you. This is a blend that requires a sober approach, and will reward forethought.
Not a casual tobacco by any standards.
OLD JOE KRANTZ
Burley, Kentucky, Perique, Virginia.
Coarse and unsophisticated of appearance, providing a potent sweet-nutty-creamy smoke. This may very well be the most straightforward tobacco you will ever enjoy. It is strong, and not for the faint of heart.
John O. almost certainly does NOT smoke the two with Latakia, having on several occasions disquisitioned anent the repulsiveness of that leaf. But he is fond of Burley, Kentucky, Virginia, and Perique. Except for that first one mentioned, I cannot fault him.
And, because he's from the south, he probably swills buckets of sweet ice tea while smoking his pipe, ending up high as a kite on caffeine and nicotine on his front porch, falling out of his rocker, and taking shots at anything that even looks remotely like Baby Yoda, such as the toothless lady next door. As people in The South are wont to do.
Actually, I have only the vaguest idea of what that region is like. Interesting food, and some remarkably nice people, surrounded by miles and miles of cotton fields, alligators, possums, advertisements for grits, and Grape Nehi. Plus Baby Yoda.
Plus pythons. Florida has pythons.
It's rather like Australia.
Note: For some strange reason (a bee up my ass as it were) I really thought that John O. lived in Florida. Maybe he mentioned it once as an example of looniness beyond the call of duty.
So all hands are off now, I can say whatever I want about Florida. Sadly, other than Jimmy Carter, I do not know beans about Georgia, and so have nothing at all to say about it.
There are, it seems, more Chinese than Germans there.
33 thousand versus 29 thousand.
It means something.
John O. lives in Georgia. Not Florida. Georgia.
As I mentioned, there are some remarkably nice people in The South, and two of my favourite writers came from there; Flannery O'Connor and William Cuthbert Faulkner. Even so, I doubt that I will ever visit. I've seen 'A Street Car Named Desire', 'Baby Doll', and 'Cat On A Hot Tin Roof', so I know what to expect. Little no-neck monsters.
Lots of Baby Yoda.
NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.
To quote Flannery O'Connor:
"Anything coming out of the South is going to be called grotesque by the Northern reader, unless it is grotesque, in which case it is going to be called realistic."
It's not all potshots at trespassers and moonshine.
Hence the movie 'Deliverance'. Which I have not seen, and refuse to ever see. Though I understand it has some great banjo music.
And I should note that I dream of retiring to a shack in the Delta, sitting on my porch looking out over the waters of the Sacramento river smoking my pipe with a shotgun on my lap for shooting varmints and tourists.
Yes, well, why do they call it tourist season if you can't shoot them?
And furthermore, what's the bag limit?
If we can't shoot elves, why do we call it the Christmas Season?
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