Nothin' compares to having a can o' spinach, causing the unnecessary destruction of Manila, or choking down a mouthful of blindness-inducing moonshine, than sharing it with a smooth smoking pipe!
Yes Gents, pipes come in a cornucopia of sizes and shapes:
My preferred around-town pipe is a Thornybrook No. 450 Cordovan African Block Meerschaum (Full Bent), but when feeling particularly sassy, I whip out the Whale-bone Churchwarden and slap on my Tyrolean:
Above, you see me with my vast collection of pipes, which I lovingly team with my modest, but ever growing collection of shrunken heads. I feel the two are kindred spirits, and go so swimmingly together, seeing that the heads once graced the necks of my former manservants who all failed to heed my stern warning to keep their Damn Dirty House Boy Paws off my prized pipes. On that note: I happen to be in the market for a new valet, if you know of anyone. Always looking for a chap with a good "head" on his shoulders. Titter titter.
But in closing, I post a photo sent in from a enterprising reader, of a puckish country gentleman who has taken his love of the smoke to an all new level:
Hats off to you, Cletis! A truly clever use of your precious galvanized buckets. Yes, now you can certainly smoke both your hams and your tobacco at the same time, but where will you take your morning constitutional or bathe the house pig?
Wait a moment. Before closing this morns blog, there's one special lady I'd be amiss to not mention...
Oh, Mother... I have you to thank for my love of the smoke. I fondly remember as a young lad, suckling on your ample, cherry-tatted bosom, drifting off to the sweet scent of your Compton's of Londonderry Bent Bulldog, as you stomped through the manor spitting venomous decrees toward the domestics. Always a lady...