Real Men Smoke on Airplanes, with Dixon Coltrane

 
 

In his latest column, Dixon Coltrane talks women. Nuff said.

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Dear Dixon,

I’m trying to scrape a few thin dimes working as a PI. The money’s not great, but the work is hard. There’s plenty of business for any man with a nice hat and a .45 automatic. However, it seems that every time a new client steps into my sepia office to ask for my services, she turns out to be a sultry temptress with the eyes of an angel and the heart of a viper. The type who’d break your heart, or maybe your legs. Half the time, she’s the one who killed her husband and left him bleeding on the smoking-room floor like a gutted halibut. I’m getting tired of being constantly duped by skirts and floozies, caught flat-footed by dime-a-dozen flappers. How can I avoid these predatory prima donnas?

Yours,

Chagrined in Casablanca.

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Listen here Chagrined,

Woman are like a fire in an old folk’s home; good natured fun at first, but possibly deadly. When dealing with a dime-flipping flapper, you have to mind your p’s and q’s, and particularly your p’s. Sinister stocking-fillers are dangerous for your health, like not smoking or contraception. It’s like Churchill says, son; “bitches be crazy”.

As such, next time a lady comes into the office, go through the following routine to make sure she doesn’t catch you with your pants down, and if she does, that she uses both hands.

Firstly, you need to sit up and look the woman up and down. Start at the legs, and keep going ‘til you get to her mid-legs. Then look at the lower legs again. If they are acceptable, take a long drag from you Virginia twist and ask her what happened to her husband – because it is always the husband, Chagrined, without exception. It’s a story I’ve heard too many times already; some boob leaving the warm bosom of home, for the warm bosom of some bosoms.

Here is a checklist; is she wearing stockings? Are her eyes barely concealed by a funereal veil? Is she smoking a cigarette out of a long black holder? Are her breasts at least the size of her own head, if her head was conical? If the answer to any of those questions was yes, than she killed her husband, no exceptions.

Yet somehow, you feel the need to help her. Somewhere, deep in the heart of your groin, you’ll sense the need to sweep the ankle of her ankles and take her away from the gutter-lined, smoke-filled maze she calls home. Resist that urge Chagrinned – you know full well that you shouldn’t dip your wick in company ink, particularly when the ink is as toxic as the peroxide she dyes her hair with, and the wick is your penis. Your penis doesn’t need mixed metaphors like that.

Still, you need the money Chagrinned, you need it like a drowning man needs air, or a balloon needs air, or the French techno scene needs Air. If the dame has dimes, you do what you have to – no point in being proud when you haven’t got enough green in your pocket to pay for heating, whiskey, or that new wide-brim you’ve got your eye on. Don’t fall for the old ‘loving-in-exchange-for-detective-work’ gambit; it never works sonny boy Chagrimmed. You’re a professional, damn it, and you need to keep that in mind when she comes at you, breasts first, looking for your tasty pro-bono work.

That’s the rub,

Dixon Coltrane

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