Real Men Smoke on Airplanes, with Dixon Coltrane

 
 

This week, Dixon tackles his toughest comer yet – a young man who is in the improbable position of hating Mr. Coltrane, and all he holds dear. Leave your questions for the Detective on the Dixon Coltrane Facebook page.

Dear Dixon,

The more of your column I read, the harder I find it to stomach your self- indulgent nonsense. I find it shocking that anyone reads the egocentric ramblings of a man who has deluded himself into thinking he’s a detective from the fifties.

Your views are completely and utterly disgusting to all forms of decency and taste. How exactly your verbal detritus acquired column space in a culture supplement is beyond me.

This is not a question, you are deluded, and you are shit.

Lovingly,

Conor

Listen here Lemon Con-Cons,

Firstly, I’m glad you like the column. As you’d imagine, I get a great deal of fan mail, and it always warms the cockles of my cockles to know that there are so many people out there that appreciate my sweet blend of manly journalism-making and advice-giving. A daisy dick like you has refined taste, and I like that in the people who think I’m the cat’s pyjamas. But buck up those ear flaps, pal o’ mine, because I know for every sullen Susan with sunken sucker, there’s a real man with a pulsing pride-hole just waiting to pounce.

Every time someone has a whine on the Internet, you know they are just compensating for a life sadder than Pagliacci with his pelvic pointer stuck in a revolving door. That’s you all over, son – a sad clown with two red noses. Never let it be said that I don’t take my shots to the chin, sonny-boy-jim-boy. So, for the rest of this excellent column I’m going to point out all the things that are clearly terrible in your life.

Firstly, what are you doing sitting in at 2am on a Friday night, complaining about a fictional journalist? You should be out drinking whiskey straight from between the breasts of a local breast-haver, or solving the case of the missing breasts. You shouldn’t be at home alone, crying into your own flim-flam – that’s Sci-Fi Soc kind of behavior, and it just won’t stand.

Secondly, no man sounds like a man when he’s whining about another man’s man column – and should stay away from my man column if you don’t want a jimmy screw to the breadbox.

And finally, I don’t know you and I don’t wanna know you. Do you think you can get away with slandering a gentleman’s gentleman like myself? I own several pairs of comfortable wing-tipped shoes and play Texas Hold ’em with Harry Lime, Philip Marlowe and a whole host of other fictional characters every Tuesday night. You’re a snivelling little girl scout who isn’t fit to pass me the Zippo I carried between my proud, American lower cheeks as I was held captive in the Ardennes by some of the Wehrmacht’s finest and most flammable. But let me give you some advice there, Con-tinental drift, you need to do something, and quick. That kind of bile ain’t good for a man or the company he keeps, so remember, live and let live. Unless the person you’re letting live is different to you – then all bets are off.

That’s the rub,

Dixon Coltrane

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