That rat bastard Joe Camel ensnared me over the weekend. It's been a long time coming - I have been dying for a decent cigar with a tasty brew, plus the whole 119 daily insults of married life I am enduring right now has made my stress jump to 11 at a moment's notice.  So, I gave in to the hypnotic pull of Mr. Camel when I was out 4 wheeling.  (It doesn't help that everyone I go wheeling with smokes like a damn chimney).  I smoked a handful of death sticks over the weekend, mostly like little cigars (not inhaling), sometimes like me as a teenager on the balcony of the people I babysat for.  Tasted like shit (dry, stale, hot ash flavored, choking clouds of stink) as opposed to tasting like dogshit (that is a Pall Mall).  And, no , I do not have any personal insights on the taste of dogshit, but I can identify it by smell, and can guess the rest.

Anyway, started a couple with a beer while grilling some steak and crab for annual hallmark holiday #12 yesterday.  Not real satisfying.  Joe lied!  None so far today.  *cross fingers*

But, they are in my glove box. 

And the matches are in my pocket.

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