IT STARTS WITH CAFFEINE

Mordechai kvells that because he is a coffee maven, his friends, relatives, and fellow citizens gift him with beans. He likes the stuff his bashert and son give him best. He is so lucky! As a pipe smoker, the equivalent is random unstable people giving me samples of blends that will assuredly change my life. Mango papaya sunrise. Vanilla custard caramel pumpkin spice; it's seasonally appropriate till February! Dead Skunk Perique Overload, from the Peoria Pipe Guild. Or, more polite, Midpa Sommar (Mafārǝk Chāgāy) from the Svendborg's Pippen Klubbe up near the arctic circle. It is unique and subtly topped with elderberries.

Oh joy. My cup runneth over.

Mm, yes.

It is the thought that counts, and they think that a whiff of urinal cake will make me more socially acceptable, why, it will revolutionize my life. Much like Hello Kitty aftershave did for them. People might start inviting me to parties! They threw a suprise party for my birthday two weeks ago but didn't invite me because of the odour of aged Virginias.
Perhaps next year.

Lord knows I appreciate the thought.
It is good that they think.
Exceedingly so.

榕樹

Per an advertisement that appeared on my computer I am supposed to find my Fall Vibe. Not sure what that means. Dead leaves? Dead bugs? Go south before winter? Listen to enka ballads while wearing a t-shirt with something in hiragana or a print by Hiroshige?

My Fall Vibe remains the same as my Summer Vibe, and my Spring and Winter Vibe.
Like my pipe tobacco it requires no drastic change.


I do like certain smells -- freshly baked pastries, ginger wafting from the stew pot, chopped scallion, orange zest, et mult altres -- but like perfume in a woman's hair I do not think them nice splashed on by the concentrate bucket in my pipe tobacco or my zesty cup of tea.
I am not Starbucks, I have no fruity vulgarities.



Parties? What parties? I do not need any parties to celebrate my birthday, halloween, Guy Fawkes Day, Thanksgiving, St. Nicholas Day, Christmas, New Years, Valentine's Day, the Spring Festival, or any other such. Neither do you, you pot-smoking heathens. I'll just be sitting in the shade at the centre of the village with all the foreign merchants, mendicants, and money lenders, spitting crimson betel juices and smoking my pipe.

Oh crap, is that the reek of pumpkin spice?
Heathens! Pot smoking heathens!



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