His exposure to me is mostly through my gentle remonstrance with fellow pipe smokers who have a Hobbit fetish or a Gandalf thing going on. Diplomatically, I point out that they are silly buggers and that their parents never even liked them.
Plus that the entire Hobbit thing is shite.
Ridiculous, and infantile.
Oh, and long churchwardens are quite ridiculous! They make you look stupid.
Real men do NOT smoke a pipe to look or feel like a Hobbit, Gandalf, elves, or Sherlock buggery Holmes. Real women don't either. Nor is a pipe part of Dungeons and Dragons or other role playing games for non-grown-ups. Hobbit's Weed and Black Shag are dreck.
Real people who smoke a pipe, like famous foreign (French) author Marcel Proust, do so because it makes it easier to write À La Recherche Du Temps Perdu.
It's all about the contemplative fits. As induced by the wonderful aromas of tar and sealing wax and furniture polish, oxidizing metals plus tannins plus pencil shavings. Or whatever else good pipe tobacco reminds you of. Stone fruits and church incense? Also really very minor amounts of a chiral alkaloid functioning as a receptor agonist, stimulating and anxiolytic in effect, absorbed through the mucous membranes. Smells good, goes well with coffee.
A pipe is soothing, comforting, beneficial to the mind.
It's not some bollocky stage prop.
My friend with the mistaken impression that I am a nice person also smokes a pipe, and has been exposed to my remarkable and damned well saintlike supernatural tolerance when dealing with other much younger pipesmokers. It may have left a good impression.
Probably because I did not brutalize them.
Hobbits, as you know, are insensitive.
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