In some ways I am overjoyed that there are three counties in California determined to free up cheap real estate for the rest of us: Butte, Placer, and Shasta. Predominantly red, absolutely sodden with conspiracy theorists, and people who are least likely to vaccinate or mask up. Mostly rural, as you would expect. When the pandemic really starts ripping through their communities, we'll send them horse de-wormer, urine, plus thoughts and prayers.
In sham solidarity, I am smoking a corncob.
Nor am I wipping a burro to make it pull my cart filled with gold ore faster.
I'm relaxing in my designer hot tub with a Cosmopolitan Cocktail.
I am a mean-spirited urban liberal and wouldn't be caught dead up in the hinterlands. Life is too short to eat tater tots and turkey franks cooked up on a hot plate in a trailer. Besides, there's no hot sauce or even Grey Poupon at the general store, and nothing but American cheese.
Certain blends that wallop me in the jaw when smoked in a briar just sing in a corncob. Old style Burley blends like Haunted Bookshop and Bailey's Front Porch or a classic like Haddo's Delight by Greg Pease, which in a civilized piece of smoking equipment make my mouth feel like it's had a workout, are lovely in a Missouri Meerschaum. Perfect with a cup of tea, and they'd probably be stellar with a raspberry hazelnut frappucino from Starbucks.
So best enjoyed here, not there.
People like me don't thrive in places where you have to order electricity and running water from Amazon. There's no place to re-charge my vehicle, and no pilates machines!
I've heard they have sulfa and quinine now.
Plus tools! They now use tools!
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