THE RANCID OLD GLOAT

Despite the momentousness of the day, I intend to get things done. Gloat. Coffee. Gloat. Smoke the first pipe of the day. Gloat. Wash, get dressed, second cup of coffee. Gloat. Read news on the internet. Gloat. Head downtown to my bank. Gloat. Shop in Chinatown. Gloat. Smoke another pipe. Gloat. Head home for a late lunch. Gloat. Read a bit. Gloat. Teatime. Gloat. Another pipe. Gloat. A light snack-like dinner. Gloat. Last pipe of the day. Gloat.

Yeah, that is a lot of pipe smoking.


Currently working through a tin of Astleys and a tin of flue-cured leaf made for Savinelli. Plus a lovely red Virginia. Tobaccos that are old codger blends, if the old codger's tastes are firmly in the gilded past. So not the typical modern-day old codger who smokes Captain Black Grape, or Sutliff Molto Dolce, but an old codger who is still young in spirit.
Not a dessicated old fossil.

Smoking aromaticized shite like Black Grape and Molto Dolce, or any of the other soddenly sweetened candy flavoured crap sold to old fossils and young men living in their mothers' basements, leads to syphilis, testicular cancer, and gonads shrunk to the size of a pin.

As well as incontinence, hairy palms, and a slack jaw.


It is exceedingly likely that three percenters, oath keepers, boogaloo bois, Texans, and other assorted Trumpite incendiarists reek of such aromas. Not only their wetly gurgling briars, but also their macho aftershaves, and their medicated athletes foot powders and jock creams.

[BTW: Gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat, gloat.]

I may need some coffee to calm down soon.
And a pipe with top notch tobacco.

TOBACCO INDEX


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