Caution: Reading About Cigarettes May Cause Unexpected Consequences

My good friend Esther from Skyhorse Publishing sent me the galley proof  of book that she thought I needed to take a look at.

It’s called The Cigarette Book; The History and Culture of Smoking.

First page I open defines the lighting one cigarette from another. Not chain-smoking, but using somebody elses cig to light up.

It’s called a Dutch Fuck.

I was warned not to quote from the book until it releases. So just trust me, they have documentation of this.

I haven’t read The Cigarette Book yet and I may never read it from cover-to-cover, because it is an “encyclopedia” for cigarettes. It is a great bathroom book, I can tell that already.

BTW: I always know how to spell encyclopedia because of Jiminy Cricket…

You know how something will pop to the top of your mind and then it seems to just grow? It’s that way today with cigarettes. Usually the only time I read about cigarettes – and more directly, smoking – is from this buzzard. Today is only 4/9 over, I’ve read this:

Some researchers scoured YouTube and found that cigarette makers were behind a lot of videos uploaded to the site.

It’s been nearly 40 years since cigarette advertisements on television and radio were banned in the U.S., and earlier this summer new regulations went into effect prohibiting tobacco companies from sponsoring events, but now the tobacco industry may have found a new, unregulated medium to advertise on – the Internet.

Times are tough in Cuba: Raul Castro has been cutting back on government handouts in Cuba until the U.S. casinos are built and Americans can start shuttling our green-backs to him.

For years, Cubans over the age of 54 received rations of the necessities of life.  Chickpeas, potatoes, and sugar rations were cut out earlier this year.  Now, to add insult to injury, elderly Cubans no longer receive their four packs of free cigarettes every month!

The U.K. is really struggling with the issue of cigarettes and smoke. According to Velvet Glove, Iron Fist, they have started down a slippery slope (the U.S. is about half-way down already.)

The case of cigarettes offers a possible example. Some nations have gone from modest warning labels to much more aggressive information campaigns to high cigarette taxes to bans on smoking in public places, and a smoker would not have to be paranoid to think that the day might eventually come when one or another nation heavily regulates or even bans cigarettes altogether.

And then there is this bit of pap: Twitter can help you stop smoking.

On my birthday this year, I decided that 15 years of smoking were enough and tossed cigarettes. I didn’t tweet about it at first, mostly because I felt really sick from nicotine withdrawals –- but on day three I mustered enough energy to pound out the above missive.

Amazing, right? I didn’t go searching for these items, they just appeared the past hours in my normal RSS reading. I will know more about cigarettes by the end of the weekend than you can shake a tobacco stick at.

I know this already, slippery slope or not, cigarettes should be banned. They are the only legal product sold that when use as directed are addictive and cause disease and death.

And soon, I will bring you more entertaining facts about cigarettes. Like

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Cheap Ways To Clean An Infirm Dad

Catch Her in the Wry suggested that Bulbous take me to the Pet Wash when I become too old to bathe myself.

Not bad, not bad, but kinda pricey. Even if the soap is included. Then there is all that lifting to get me into the stainless steel tub.

Here are some other ideas:

  • Dump some laundry detergent on my head and roll me outside during a thunderstorm.
  • Tie my walker to the back bumper of your car as you go through a car wash. Suggestion: don’t get the dryer cycle, I’m pretty light.
  • Baptize me weekly.
  • Offer me a drink from a fountain, but keep your finger over the hole so it sprays me. Note: this only works on face and neck, maybe upper body if you’re lucky and I fall for it twice.
  • Visit the DMV, give me a seat, and find the fire alarm to set off overhead sprinklers.

Any other ideas are always welcome and strongly encouraged. I may start using them sooner rather than later.

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I Broiled My Butt So You Don’t Have To

(Music up: Dragnet Theme)
(Music fade…)
It’s 3:05 a.m.
I’m working the Vanity Watch out of South Smallburg.
My name is Sixty, my partner is Colonel Potter.
Somethings just burn my ass.
This is that story…
(Music up: Dragnet Theme)

J.D. at I Do Things has a great theme for a blog and she does a lot of things so I don’t have to…

So then there was that time I was covered in tar.

The end.

Oh, you want details. Well, you would.

I’m adapting imitating stealing her theme for today.

Nancy and I were feuding about the amount of time I was spending on the river. As a result, things were frosty at the old Conclave ala Kayak. We weren’t speaking.

This means I lost my best adviser and counselor to save me from myself. Things thawed after a day and we resumed our normal lives: she had Bunco last evening (earlier this night).

I decided it would be a great time to broil my butt.

- – - – - – - – - -

A great coupon for tanning I did boast,

My kayaked skin was as brown as toast,

Bajan folks would soon be our host.

Into the local tanning salon, I did coast,

With my skinnier ass as white as a ghost,

And therein lies the tale of my roast…

- – - – - – - – - – -

Earlier, during our break in day-to-day conversations, I got a great deal at a tanning salon. I’ve never been to a tanning salon. I have a nice overall tan this year and it would be nice to hit the Barbados beach without my normal golfer’s tan.

Aside: a golfer’s tan is worse than a farmer’s tan (dark brown arms and face – lily-white everyplace else because they wear short-sleeve shirts, but long pants.) A golfer’s tan is dark brown arms and face, dark brown from the just above the knees to just above the ankle, because golfer’s wear short pants, but socks that usually cover the ankle.)

Normally I would consult Nancy and perhaps even she would have indulged and gone with me, guiding me through the SOP’s for technology tans.

I had a Kayaker’s tan. I usually only wore a bathing suit while yakking in the river. (And yes, every time I would pull my shirt off over my head after we were on the river, Kenny would say “My eyes! My eyes!” Every. Single. Time.)  But since other guys were doing it I felt it would be OK, even with moobs that just won’t go away no matter how much weight I lose.

When I met Cassy at the front desk of the tanning salon, she was very helpful – by that I mean she didn’t bust a gut laughing when I said I was a virgin when it came to tanning beds. OK, I didn’t actually say virgin to her, I said it was my first time.

She was young enough to be my grand-daughter and I played on those feelings.

Bed 9, she said.

Whuck? I said.

Do you want me to go back with you to explain how it works?

Yes, please.

This is the doomsday clock, you have 5 minutes to get ready and get in the bed. This is the button to start the bed, this is the button to control the fan, the bed has been sanitized. Take off your clothes, (NO! AFTER I leave…) and put on these winkies to protect your eyes, get in the bed and in 20 minutes the bed will automatically turn off.

I did all that. As I’m lying there I’m thinking, this is kinda pleasant and recalled the days on the Beaufort beach. Then it dawned on me. I’m naked. This is a tanning bed. There are parts of my body that have not seen the sun except for very brief “pit stops” along the river. Draining the snake, if you will.

Holy shit! I grabbed my package to keep it covered. It took both hands!

There was no way I could cover my ass at the same time.

You know how a sunburn doesn’t hurt until a few hours later?

My ass started burning a couple hours ago.  Not the kind of burning you get from too much Thai food, my cheeks are on fire!

Sleeping is not an option – lucky you! I Broiled My Butt So You Don’t Have To.

Since we’re talking about my ass, let me update you with my new favorite toilet graffiti…

The oldies:

  • Here I sit, broken-hearted, tried to shit but only farted.
  • People who write on shit house walls, roll their shit into little balls, people who read these lines of wit, eat those little balls of shit.

The newest:

But don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. I took a couple Ass-burn tablets and will await the sunrise.

BTW: that full moon you saw glowing last night? You’re welcome.

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Ahahahaha, Deer Whistles are Back!


Fraud, fake, hoax.

Deer whistles, little gizmodos that we’re supposed to shell out good money for to protect our massive, well-insured, Mad Max, road chewers, from smashing into Bambi, are back!

I remember the first time deer whistles were popular. It was about the same time that geezers were adding a daytime running light to the center of their car grill to alert oncoming motorists that a car was heading toward them. The car makers liked this so well, they lobbied NTSA to have running lights be mandatory. They then jacked up the price of cars by a few hundred bucks.

Gearheads about the same time started adding an anti-static strap to hang beneath the car so it didn’t spontaneously combust from all the electricity created when the rubber meets the road.

Deer whistles didn’t work then. They don’t work now, but all those Volvo-driving eco-freaks will rush out to Sharper Image and spend $89.00 to protect the wildlife.

Except deer whistles don’t work. (Did I say that already?)

“We tested them strictly from an acoustical point of view,” explains Scheifele. He found that the whistles typically produce a signal either at a frequency of 3 kilohertz (kHz) or 12 kHz. Both, as it turns out, are problematic.

The hearing range of white-tailed deer, the most common species in the United States, is between 2 kHz and 6 kHz, so the animal is not capable of hearing the 12 kHz signal.

I have a carburetor that gets 500 miles per gallon, but Big Oil is paying me millions to keep it off the market.

But Deer whistles don’t work.

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