Essay on the Goodness of Cigars

Sorry it has been a while since I last posted, but I've been waiting for something good and I've got it, oh boy do I got it.

A friend of mine, Byron, sent this to me for no reason at all... It's brilliant. Enjoy.

People always ask me,

Byron, do you have dreams?

Sure I've got dreams. Who doesn't? I have a dream of my beautiful little offspring looking up to me with those big inquisitive eyes and asking me,

Daddy, did you ever get to go to the Annual High Roller Open Invitational?

I'd smile, one of those proud, tear-fighting, cocksure smiles when a parent finally knows that their little baby has started growing and begun understanding the important things in life. It would be a smile for a question to which I knew the answer. I'd crouch down down humbly with endearment and reply with a shaky voice,

I was an Original. I was at the 1st Annual High Roller Open Invitational.

Time would go by and I would find my little bundle of joy peeking into the awe-inspiring chest of leathery wooded canes of enigmatic eminence. Little did that child appreciate the root aprehension to which they would find peace, meditation, and the preternatural assuagement that is found in these shafts of smoke. We'd drift about, conversing about the more important things in life - Golf, the Dodgers, Supply-Chain Management, Daddy's ol' Thug Life in Inglewood. My excited little rugrat would ask me about the important things in life,

Daddy, what's a full-body cigar? Daddy, where do cigar's come from? Daddy, don't cigar's cause cancer?

No, child, cigarettes cause cancer. God smiles and kicks his feet up every time the crisp midnight air is scortched by a flame harmonizing with with tightly wrapped tobacco leaves. No, no, cigarettes, marijuana, and crystal meth, these are the things that cause cancer. Cigar's are natural; from the earth.

I'd show that little tyke how to take a long draw, straight to the dome. Without inhaling, I'd show that squirt how to maximize the heavy cloud to that which can only be compared to a nuclear fallout. This one's lucky because they'd be observing a man that earned the name Cheech by some of the greatest men alive. Without missing a beat, that whippersnapper would anxiously reach for a their own mind-opening experience and unveil the joy that can be so hard to describe.

The emotional animation derived from the hyper zealous desperation to learn more explodes with a thirst for wisdom that can only be snared through snipets of advice of the child's father. The kid will inquire further; on past the shallow surface that was scratched in our short saunter,

Daddy, what's the best kind of stogie? How do you put the hole in it? How long does it last?

I'll snicker to myself as I patiently lay out the technique for caring for a spicey Monte Cristo No. 2 that excites your palet with an impressive aroma. My little beginner would come to know the basics of cutting or punching the tip, and it's important to learn from a veteran smoker. A couple of quick puffs to get it started, then taking in a long stream of goodness, I'd watch my seed grow into a leader of understanding. Most would call me an extremist; a bit too hard pressed to get a light. I'm sorry folks, it's in my nature, I don't choose to be a High Roller. The same reason that a midget uses the short urinal in the john. He doesn't want to use the little one, but he's not gonna pretend to be something he's not and get a stool for the big person stall. He uses it because he belongs there. It's where I belong.

Keep Smokin',
BTrain

Smith's & Handy's in Charlotte