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The Big One February 6, 2009

Posted by billynorton in Bad Habits.
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thebig one

You Could Scare Your Girlfriend With This!

Just the name should alone, should have been a warning, “The Big One”. It is 7 inches long and a staggering 56 ring gage. Really but why would I expect a cigar (that is so comically large it could be used by anti-tobacco fascists to beat smokers to death) to be anything less than a big pile of smoldering cow dung.

There is not a self-respecting cigar maker, outside of the USA, that would have the gall to make this cigar. Given it had an after taste of burning latex and KY jelly, I can only assume this black monster was actually made by a dildo manufacturing company trying to diversify.

Besides the asinine name, it looked good .It had dark oily wrapper and smooth construction. I had high hopes when I went to light it. It did not so much as light, but it took four matches to get it to start melting like plastic. It smelled like, what I imagine the Dow chemical plant explosion in India, smelled like in the 80s.

shit I was banished from Dave’s car for smoking the putrid phallic anomaly that made the eyes water and children cry.

A ragged homeless man came by looking for change and cigarettes. I gave him 50 cents and asked him to dispose of this toxic log safely. I guess I should feel guilty for letting the most vulnerable in society smoke this to feed there addiction but I doubt it is any worse for him than the Lysol and Shoe polish cocktail that he had for breakfast.

I just hope he doesn’t use it to rob a liquor store or rape innocent school girls.


Better Than a Smoke in the Eye January 15, 2009

Posted by billynorton in Bad Habits.
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You better believe, I fucking missed smoking. I aint one of those new-age-holier-than-thou fucktard hippy douchebags that preach and judge every smoker they can smell. No, I was a two pack a day smoke from the age of 13 until 37, and I quit five years ago, because I hated being slave to anything, but I also loved smoking like a mother loves her serial killing child regardless of how they are judged by their peers.

I loved the act. I adored the taste. I relished the way it felt filling up my lungs.

Sure it was a crutch. No doubt it was a prop. Definitely it was an identity and under the right circumstances it was a god damn weapon, but at $10 a fuckin pack it was a liability when times were tough. I could live with out whiskey and hookers in a pinch but if I could not smoke an Export A filterless “Green Death” cigarette with my morning coffee there was a damn good chance I was going go off on someone that day. More often than not it led to a black eye, but on occasion it landed me in prison and even though they were required to hand out tobacco rations, it was still an ugly place to be when you had to trade your tobacco just so you did not have to smoke some other “stick”.

When the shit was flying, you know, when your girlfriend was throwing your shit out on the front lawn screaming about infidelities and STD tests, I could sit of the curb and focus on the smoke, instead of getting some gasoline and lighting the shit hole trailer on fire. It was like meditation and it prevented me from doing anything stupid, or at least gave me time to consider the repercussions of doing anything stupid without an alibi.

It was an extension of my hand when I talked, it hung off my lip when I worked, and reaching for the pack in my pocket was a subliminal warning to the guy sitting across the pool table.

My “Green Death” Export A’s were part of my identity from the time I was 13. They were a family tradition. They killed my father and his father before him, and damn certain they were going to be the death of me. Because they did not have a filter, people were reluctant to borrow one- unless there was no other choice, and when they did it was a pleasure to watch them hack a fuckin’ lung.

They talked of the 80’s being the decade of the “Cola Wars”, but that was for the Top Gun watching, Depeche Mode listening sissies. In Calmar your smoke said more about you than your car. Everyone was either a Player’s Man, A Dumaurier Man, An Export A man, or they were a god damn faggot. There was no negotiating these battle lines. Real men hand rolled their cigarettes or at least bought the filterless kind.

I stuck a burning cigarette in a man’s eye at the bar and it bought me enough time to find a pool cue and knock him out. A non smoker would have been trying to talk his way out of it while he took a shiv to the lung, and an ex-smoker would have tried offering him a piece of gum and been beaten senseless with his tinkerbells before he could blow a bubble.

So it was a major lifestyle choice when I decided to quit, and that was during the Great Marijuana Drought of 2003. I could not scrape two nickels together and welfare -in Alberta- was only a one way Greyhound ticket to B.C, or enough enough money for a shot of Alberta Brand Vodka on welfare Wednesday at the end of the month.  I quit cold fucking turkey and went stark raving insane for two months. I was hallucinating while chewing on licorice and taking five showers a day. It aint right that I smell that clean, but no matter how hard I tried I could not smoke in the shower.

Five years later Dave offered me a cigar, a Romeo and Juliet # 2. With such a girlie name I was surprised how it kicked me in the head. Chandler, from that chick show “Friends” (my girlfriend watched it and it was on TV 5 times a days), said it best-


“Oh Dark Mother, once again I suckle at your smoky teat.”








It was like rediscovering a long lost friend. You know a friend that titillates you and then tries to kill you slowly. I did not inhale, so I told myself that  I did not have a problem.

This smoke was a thing of beauty and the taste was divine. I wondered how anyone could smoke that foul tasting, chemical laden shit they pushed into tubes and sold at corner stores. It was the difference between a fine wine and the piss ass moonshine my father made out of potatoes peels and rotten apples.

It was also something that offended smokers and non smokers alike. I could sit on the patio smoking a fat cheap Dominican and sure enough fat cheap house wife would go by saying “That Fucking Reeks!” not-so-under their breath. All I could do was smile and say not-so-under my breath  “get your ass back on the treadmill.”

I was down at The Roasterie Coffee House, in Calgary, one Sunday last summer. IT was populated by the freaks and the geaks and the hipster douchebags one come to expect in every cities independent coffee house. It was the last refuge for smokers to smoke inside and I am certain it is what gave their self roasted coffee the kick. However, every Sunday middle aged cyclists and their spandex gangs would take up all of the seats outside. That one day a week the Spandex Army would roll in, judge everyone, leave a mess, and tip poorly. I sat down at the last available seat and sparked a Partagas Series P torpedo.

Immediately a 60 old woman in blue spandex that pancaked her floppy breast against her belly snorted,” Could you please do that somewhere else!”

“Uh sorry I am in my rights to smoke here. I am 1 metre away from the door” I responded calmly ,but wouldn’t you know it, her husband got up and paced it out.

“Really could you go somewhere else, you are ruining our coffee” she wined looking down her nose at me.

“Could you please, please not wear you spandex in public and keep your camel toes locked in the privacy of your own homes!” and I and calmly and blew a big plume of smoke to their table.

They shut the hell up and did not say another word. I would continue to smoke cigars on Sunday mornings, joined by freaks and geaks and hipster douche bags- and they still showed up flying their spandex gang colours making obvious coughing  gestures.

Then one day after Wendy had smashed all the glasses in the motel, I lit up a Don Tomas Classico in anger and inhaled deeply off the first pull. Oh god I hacked and turned blue but it sent electricity firing through my body lighting up the

RJ dong

world making everything brilliant and calm and right. The next day I was back to smoking two packs of Green Death a Day. Wendy hated the damn things. She only smoked those girlie ultra lites with 2 inched of filter. What was the point of that.

I still smoke cigars and I don’t inhale them.

Some one once asked me, ” Billy why do you take that cigar around with you when you aren’t smoking it”

I answered with the only answer that makes any sense,

” IT is more socially acceptable than playing with my penis is public!”