BUT LET US NOT SPEAK OF THAT

In addition to screaming rowdy pissants in one part of the building, there were a number of quite well-behaved gentlemen at the other end. Members of the local pipe club had a social get-together involving very moderate drinking and a selection of lovely meat products while discussing tobacco and an aortic stent which one of the members is having installed later in the month, among other things. On the whole we're all getting older. Even though we like to think of ourselves as vibrant and energetic exceptionally clean cut teenagers.

Spiritually I am young and hale and hearty.
Not past fifty in the slightest!


And I think I speak for the other members present in that respect.

Though we may not look it. I doubt that any of us ever resembled staggering he-men or highschool jocks, being more into textual athletics and fact-based studies than feel-good track and field nonsense. I was probably the most sporty person there, seeing as I was wearing a football sweatshirt for a yeshiva which I never attended with a college football squad that actually doesn't exist. And as far as I'm aware all nearly ten thousand current bocherim in the body are into Mishnah Gemarah Talmud Torah.
They probably wouldn't know a pigskin from Adam.
Imagine a library filled with people.

Difference between pipe club members and regular Americans when stepping into a library is that pipe club members would exclaim "oh hey, books" and happily scatter all over the place, whereas everybody else would groan "oh crap, books", then hold their heads down and run for the exit. Most yeshivot, as you can well imagine, have books coming out the hoo-hah.
Sfarim to the rafters. Megilas, megilatum, dixit Ecclesientes, omnia megilas.

There was charcuterie, and fromage. Distillates and hot coffee. Several open tins of tobacco. Lively conversation that never once reached the loudness level of the sports morons at the other end of the builing. They go up to eleven.


Among the subjects we touched upon: Legends (an excellent pipe mixture formerly available from McClellands, recipe by Fred Hanna), Scott in Mexico who smokes both good tobacco and something indescribably nasty in his Sasienis and Dunhills, John O. in Georgia whose selfies aften feature his bespectacled visage partially hidden behind a massive beard, a large Castello, and clouds of smoke (Doblone D'Oro), Neil's fondness for Comoy Blue Ribands, Adrian who used to use a Dunhill or Dupont lighter to obscure the fright-warning on tobacco tins in the photographs that he posted, and of course the good old days. When you could smoke everywhere, and doctors lit up after surgery.


So I would say it was a good meeting. Not disturbed too much by the people at the other end of the building, who were all senile Republican dunderheads, very loudly having orgasms and soiling their tight tight TIGHT diapers when the local team won.



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