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“The Dark Side” by Addiction: You’ve Gotta Fight For Your Right…

Posted by dabyrdman33 on November 19, 2010

Confessions of a Cuban Cigar Smoker
You’ve Gotta Fight For Your Right….….
Soooooo let’s start with what is important this week:
Be aware that by emailing the above address you give me permission to reuse your content without remuneration (not that I’m getting any lol).  And that I will attempt to respond in a tone and vocabulary that matches the intent of your communication with me.
One small thing that has been on my mind.  Remember the dude years ago who got on the plane and tried to set his shoes on fire to blow them up?  Richard Reid?  I have to wonder how they came up with that as a plan.  I mean if having a Muslim get on a plane wearing a turban with a bomb in his shoes that he has to set off by setting said shoes on fire using matches was the winning plan then what the fuck was the second best plan?  Maybe dropping an anvil on the plane or possibly painting a rock to look like the blue sky so the plane crashes into it?  Who the fuck is Al Qaeda’s chief strategist Wile E. Coyote?
And now Richard Reid is sitting in Supermax.  I’m thinking that shit is a waste on him, given his supreme bad guy planning powers I’m pretty sure he could be contained with a collar and an electric dog fence.  And even if the collar had no batteries that shit would hold him in.  Unless you gave him access to a lighter……
I also don’t quite understand what somebody says to you to make you put on a backpack with a bomb in it.  I personally believe I can sell ice to Eskimos but I couldn’t do that. What do you say to these fools?  I mean I understand if you live in a village of 234 people and your social standing makes you 228th in line of importance it might be an easier job but personally Allah himself couldn’t convince me to wear exploding shoes made by a dude with only 7 fingers and a third grade education.
Allah: So 77 virgins, how about it?
Me: Seriously dood can you stop sweating me already?  You stuck me in the dessert and demanded I wear all these hot ass robes and shit and I did that.  You wanted me to give up pork and you know I loves me some ribs and I did that too. Can’t you summon some locusts or a flood or some shit?  Dammit I knew I shoulda chose Jehovah!
I mean don’t these guys think to themselves that if this is Gods will to stop Israelites from going to the farmers market on a Thursday afternoon that he would have made a rain of blood, or at a minimum a rain of frogs, to discourage them?  Not send his dumb ass over there with a backpack of C4?
Anywho I was talking to a friend of mine last night whose marriage is going through a rough patch.  He’s leaning towards throwing in the towel on his marriage.  Apparently he thought that marriage was supposed to be a Lifetime movie meets a hallmark card meets an Oprah book selection kind of deal.  Like every day was wine and chocolate drizzled on nipples and let’s jet away to Paris on a moments notice.  My friend poured out his anguish over his marriages lack of perfection to me and I seriously thought on it.  Such a serious and disturbing topic deserves thought and consideration matching its nature.  As a friend I nodded wisely as I mustered up what sympathy I could find and asked:
“Are you secretly gay?”
He didn’t understand the question but it makes perfect sense to me.  First off the only people I know who are comfortable using the term “jet away to Paris” in a normal conversation either have a vagina or wishes they had a vagina.  And the only men I know that want to “jet away to Paris” for a weekend are either rich or they love the cock.  Since I happen to know you can walk in any Walmart in America and buy a television whose square footage would approximate this couples apartment size rich is prolly out of the question.  I ain’t saying they poor, but I wouldn’t exactly be shocked if Florida Evans lives in their building.  Like the closest thing you will ever smell in that apartment to meat is wet feet, that’s the kinda struggling they is doing.  So that just leaves enjoying the taste of dick as the reason for the “jet away” comment.  And I won’t even get into the chocolate nipples deal, that’s cock ring level gay right there.
As an aside I personally find Paris to be kinda meh.  In some ways its beautiful sure but it’s the dirtiest city in Europe in my opinion.  Like it’s so dirty Parisian rats go to Cabrini-Green for vacation.  It’s like trailer park people complain about it dirty, and those muthafuckers decide what clothes to wear to work by smelling em.  Top that off with the fact that French people like no one, not even other French people, and it’s a kinda underwhelming experience.  The only good thing about it is if you take a woman to Paris then somebody who looks like you and lives where you live should end up getting some extraordinary sex during that trip.  But if you are being real with yourself and your romantic prospects I hope you are pointing out your expectations well in advance of ticket purchase.  Just say, as reasonably as you can, that an excursion that requires a passport should guarantee sexual congress.  So going to Aruba is definitely a “bring some Magnums” trip.  Which makes a flight to Paris just because a “you can stick it in her ass while the chimpanzee watches” kinda trip, at least the first time.
Anywho, apparently he isn’t gay and gets incredibly offended if you ask him.  Which again leads me back to ummm gay.  Cause seriously unless your method of asking if I’m gay is trying to stick your dick in my mouth I think I can just say no and keep it moving, I ain’t gotta get in your grill about it.  But when someone protests too much, well that’s a discussion for another time.
People think marriage is waking up in the morning with a smile on your lips and a song in your heart every day.  Like marriage is always looking at this other person and having your spirits lifted while “You And Me” by Lifehouse plays in the background.  I’m calling BULL and SHIT on that right now.  It’s a marriage, not a fucking Disney movie.  Are there days like that?  Absolutely.  But there are also days where you have been awake at 2:17 AM wondering where you can rent a chainsaw and if your luggage could hold blood without leaking.  And if you have never watched something like a Scott Peterson or OJ Simpson like trial less in a “car accident can’t look away” kinda way and more in a “how could I get away with it” kinda way then you ain’t really been in love.
I mean what other human relationship do we expect to be solely defined by its positives?  We don’t expect that babies will stay cute and kissy forever, we know eventually that little bastard will grow up and wrap the car around a telephone pole because he was sexting while trying to download the newest Jay Z disc instead of watching the fucking road.  And we accept that as the nature of parenting.  We know that there will be baby’s first step kinda days, but there will be many more changing a diaper while his little ass tries to pee on you kinda days or peanut butter sandwich in the DVD player kinda days and we learn to live with that. 
Why do young people define their relationships through media stereotypes.  Young women think that they will come home one day to a mysteriously empty but clean house with soft jazz playing and hundreds of candles.  A trail of rose petals and cute sexy notes leads you to a bedroom where there is Dom on ice (I used to drink Cristal but them fuckers racist!) and sexy but comfortable lingerie laid out.  Your man will appear from nowhere fit and ready to massage you before making kind and gentle but passionate love to you.
If you deconstruct that myth even a little bit it makes no sense.  Twenty year old women still use candles sure, but it’s simply cause they don’t know no better.  Candles melt as they burn.  Getting your g spot hit by candle light clearly does something for women, at least if Oxygen Network and romance novels are to be believed.  But recovering from the white eyed roll back to find your entire bedroom covered in candle wax is a huge turn off for women.  You know why?  Cause unless it’s on the TV, the Xbox or the computer your man ain’t even gonna notice it.  You will wait for your man to clean it as a measure of gratitude for whatever nasty little thing you did the night before and he don’t even know it’s there, his dumb ass thinks the dresser CAME like that.  And you keep waiting cause that shit is festering like a boil on the ass of a 500 lb man, no one knows it’s there til the shit erupts.  And you go from blissful post coital love, to mild annoyance to watching CSI reruns to get a good idea of what forensic science can and cannot prove.  Like in the span of three months you are within an Amazon click of buying a plastic kiddie pool, a camping hatchet and 40 gallons of sulfuric acid to solve your husband problem and you are starting to yell at that bastard for putting forks in the spoon slot in the silverware drawer.
But marriage doesn’t work that way, can’t work that way.  Marriage is about commitment.  Look at your grandmomma and granddaddy.  They have 8 children.  Those 8 brothers and sisters are 6 different shades of brown ranging from mulatto to briquette.  At least two of them seem to have a natural predilection towards carrying mail.  You think yo grandfather ain’t want to dig a very deep hole in the backyard and use your MeMa as the seed to plant a Cheatin’ Bitch tree?  But he made it 46 years cause he wasn’t no prize either.  You know as well as I do that yo granddaddy done had a fifth of whiskey everyday of his life since Fredrick fucking Douglas was in Congress.  Shit that’s actually HIS picture on the Old Granddad bottle!  He’s pretty much been a functional alcoholic for 30 years, except for the functional part.  I gotta believe Big Momma has considered using the contents of his skull as the main ingredient in Shotgun Stew (cock weapon, let buckshot do the stirring) on several occasions, yet here they are still going strong. At that point it’s not just about love, it’s about being able to stand over a grave and scream “I FUCKING BEAT YOU!!!”
I think I’m a great guy.  But I’m also a grate(ing) guy.  My wife deserves, but will prolly never get, the Nobel Prize simply for staying married to me.  I know that she loves me but I’m also sure that she’s considered if someone has sleep apnea, which I do, can they really tell if someone else put a pillow over their face and then sat on it until that motherfucker stopped thrashing?  And as much as I love and need her it’s my “strong sense of commitment” that has kept her from “accidentally” stepping in front of a moving bus.  By “accidentally” I mean “pushed so hard she looks like she was shot out of a goddamn  T-shirt cannon during March Madness” and by “strong sense of commitment” I mostly mean “traffic cameras and the current insanely high levels of technology in fingerprinting.”  Yes she can be a tremendous pain in the ass, but I am a tremendous ass so it’s a perfect fit even when it isn’t.
Are there situations where you have to leave, sure.  If your husband is kicking your ass then yes you prolly need to jet.  If your wife is kicking your ass you should definitely stay however.  Maybe as a society we will catch a break and she will finally beat you to death so that your line propagates no further.  Seriously I know men are becoming more sensitive and soft but if your wife is kicking your ass you should double check to make sure your penis has not started to grow up into your damn body.  Of course if you are a lesbian getting your ass kicked by your wife my feelings on that are dependent on what kinda lesbian you married:
         Portia Rossi Type – I think if you are afraid to fight Ms. Rossi (or is it Mrs. DeGeneres?) that you might be the biggest punk in history.  Like Seriously.  It’s like being a rapper and getting slapped by Puffy.  But after seeing her on television I might completely understand why you would chose to wear dark glasses all the time and be telling your friends “But y’all don’t know her like I do.  She’s good to me, she don’t mean it.”  I ain’t an advocate of taking a beat down but if there is pussy worth it somewhere on this planet its where those two gorgeous gams meet.  If there was gonna be some animalistic make up sex that might be a beat down I just have to take…….
         Ellen De Generes Type – Ok again I don’t think the average prissy woman really wants to fight Ellen so I get why you’d leave. But your still kinda a punk if you don’t go down swinging.  Ellen seems scrappy but you catch her with a strong right jab and she will back the fuck up off you.  I mean seriously unless she sucker punches you with a bag filled with her yearly earnings ain’t no reason to take a beat down from Ellen.
         Rosie O’Donnell Type – Before I can advise you here I just gotta ask, seriously?  Cause Rosie has a face only a mother could love…..after several bottles of tequila. And do you really want to go down on Rosie?  I’m pretty sure those thighs could make a UFC champion tap out if they lock up on you.  You fuck around and make her cum and you will lose a hat size, no joke.  Now I ain’t no bitch but if Rosie had beef with me I’d try to talk it out before going to blows.
            Rosie:  What the fuck you say to me (she sniffs)?  Mothafucka (sniffs again) I will whip               your drunken ribeye with Rosemary mashed potatoes (sniffs) and julienne carrots eating                        ass!
            Me:  Why can’t we all just get along, violence is never the answer.
            I’m just saying if Rosie get all up in yo grill and start smelling food on you her brain                      translates that shit to weakness.  Things can go horribly wrong in a heartbeat. Best to                         skip right over restraining orders and ask for witness protection.  And stay away from                         buffet tables if you don’t want to blow your cover.
There are other situations to leave under.  If your boo is a Pookie. A Pookie means crack be calling his ass like he’s a radio station giving away front row Usher tickets. Money issues can be a bitch too.  Only you can decide the right reasons for you to leave, but getting on your nerves shouldn’t fucking be one of them.
I apologize for the sloppy edit here. When I write these pieces they are 2-4 times the length you get here.  I write the whole piece, edit it down to a reasonable post and then save the rest for the book.  Yes I’m writing a book, tho lord knows I have no clue if anyone will ever read it. So occasionally the shit just edits badly and I apologize for that.  I wandered all over the place here, so a clean edit would have been a bitch to pull off.
So small update on the office. It’s been inspected, insulated and drywalled. Just need to finish mudding, priming, painting, electrical, HVAC and flooring. Then move the shot that goes I to the room actually into the room. Then get furniture. That’s all I’m saying on that for today, this whole project makes my ass hurt.
I promised a few weeks back, or more like 2 months ago, I promised a list of my top 5 favorite all time smokes.  To qualify for this list I need to have smoked at least 3 of the cigars alone not in puff puff passes, three seems to be the number where at least for me that I can take a cigars true measure. At least two of those cigars need to be from different boxes.  That lets me know they didn’t just get lucky.  I think the list will floor my regular readers, there are only 8 of y’all and 6 of you know me pretty well. But you will still be surprised by what’s not there and you’ll definitely be surprised by what is.  In a future post you’ll find that I number my top five smoking experiences slightly different than my top five cigars
5.  Davidoff Diademas Finas – This was the first 10 I personally ever smoked.  Not terribly complex but as you want your girl to yell “OH SHIT, THATS MY SPOT!”. I recall writing it was a one trick pony, but oh what a trick.  This is really a bit of a cheat and the Cohiba Lancero should occupy this spot because I would not purchase this cigar now at any price, but the box and a half I smoked was to die for.
4.  Por Larranaga Magnifico – In my opinion the greatest freshest stick I’ve had.  So rich and complex, beyond good.  I don’t have enough of these to smoke em the way I want to so it’s going to be hard to let the ones I do have get 10 years on them.  But I expect astounding things if they make them that far.
3.  Cohiba Sublime – If you have read anything I’ve written you knew there would be some Cohiba on this list.  The Milli lost a little ground because the Sublime is a more traditional Cohiba taste.  The Lancero, the stick I own the second most of (Siglo 4 is the most), lost its edge because they are occasionally plugged.  Everyone of 13 Sublimes vie smoked as been better than the last.  It is in fact due to the Sublime I will speculate on 20 boxes of whatever the next Cohiba EL is.  
2.  Vegas Robainia Jubelium – This and the PL Magnifico bear the distinction of being the only cigar I would buy hands down over Cohibas; assuming of course I had the capital.
1.  Cubatobbaco 1994 – This is the jewel of the Cuban holy trinity to me.  Every one raves on the 1492 but this is the sweet spot for me.

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