This week Dixon Coltrane talks cigarettes and how real men smoke ’em.
I’m a lady’s man. In fact, such is the level of appeal that my chiseled features and probably large penis command, that I’m often described as a chap who is regularly ‘knee-deep in boob’. I find post-coital moments to be most opportune for lighting up, so as to remind my own lungs and sexual partners who’s boss by forcing smoke inside each of them in turn. However, I’m finding that my usual unfiltered, imported Ukrainian cigarettes (or ‘man sticks’, as I refer to them) aren’t having the usual second-hand effects of inducing mass fits of coughing and premature baby labour that I enjoy. Have the bloody Soviets gone soft!? Please, divulge unto me your cigarette of choice so that I might helicopter spin my metaphorical wang of tobacco products in the face of society once more.
Here’s the scoop Aeroshane,
Cigarettes are an important part of any man’s attire, like a fine watch, a sharp suit, or a fine-sharp piece of arm-ankle. Far be it from the University Observer to encourage smoking, the nancy pinkoes that they are, but if you are going to smoke, that is to say, if you’re a real man with a probably large penis, then lighting up a stogie or similiar tar-jumbo and blowing smoke up your lady friend is the only way to go.
There are two named cigarette brands that are acceptable Steam-Shane, and they are Lucky Strike Red and Marlboro Red. These are acceptable (despite the obvious Bolshevik connotations) as they provide a manly degree of both nicotine and raw, gaseous cancer directly to your chest-box. Nothing screams ‘man’ louder than the erotic musk of smoke on your lapels and a stubbed white smoke dangling from your mouth, the stinging fog getting in your unflinching eyes. Cigarettes are like a glowing sign across you chest, a sign that reads ‘balls’.
As fine as though two aforementioned brands are, they represent smoking with the hotsy, but not the totsy. For a real man’s man’s man smoke, you want to go off-book. Deep into the dry, rocky, Mexican desert, three day’s treck from the closest non-detective style village or donkey sanctuary, is an feral geriatric who goes by the name of Ol’ Jorge. An expert in everything from mechanical engineering to rabbit skinning, Ol’ Jorge is a wise old soul who rolls the finest cigarettes available to man or woman, but particularly man. And although you ain’t no Ol’Jorge, Citizen Shane, you can try and roll one of those lung-sticking twists yourself.
You start with an A4 sheet of paper – if you’re a pussy. For real men, nothing but a A1 sized bedsheet of a paper will do. Now you’ll want only the finest raw, untainted tobacco; something in the criollo family is a quick-sharp way to a Chicago overcoat, but if you don’t want to end up making the trip for biscuits, try the shredded leaf of a black dokha plant, which are readily available in your local Iran. For a filter, you’re going to want to roll up a miniscule piece of rough cardboard, or if you can’t get cardboard, the solidified manifestation of your masculinity. Roll that nasty piece of char-tang into a cylander, and light it up, preferably while in a confined space or on public transportation – show those smug commuters who’s the real raindog in town.
That the rub,