Musings of a Pipe Smoking Man

As an example to others, and not that I care for moderation myself, it has always been my rule never to smoke when asleep and never to refrain when awake.
I wish that I had come up with that line. Rates of literacy being what they are in our time, chances are that I could claim it as my own and never be called on it. Needless to say, I smoke a good deal, which is to say all the time. Please, spare me your admonishments. I am aware of the risks involved and I don’t need anyone else trying to make me feel bad for exercising personal choice. If statistics bear out, I should feel extremely bad about it around age fifty-five or sixty and all you pink-lungers can feel vindicated.
Once upon a time the world was run by smokers in the forms of Churchill, Edward R. Murrow, and FDR. We called those people heroes then. We’d call them disgusting now and relegate them to the fringe of society in the designated smoking area several hundred yards away from where the rest of the fringes are allowed to be. In such times as these, smokers have been known to band together for support, swap stories about how many times they have tried to quit, or offer tips on which stores offer the best prices on favorite brands. It’s beautiful, really, and I’m proud to be a part of it. At least, I would be, but I happen to be of a subgroup that seems mistrusted and ridiculed but even the rest of the tobacco using world. I am a pipe smoker, you see. I have smoked a pipe since the age of sixteen and it wasn’t a hard choice to make. Many of the men in my family smoked pipes; many of my heroes smoked pipes; pipe tobacco tastes far better than any cigarette or cigar I have found and is always much cheaper. Sure, a pipe makes me seem even more professorial, more pompous, more pretentious than I already am, but like I always say, I never wanted to be a stereotype, I was just born this way.
Yes, I share in all the rejection and disparagement meted out to all smokers nowadays. Instead of being allowed to commiserate with my fellow puffers, however, I am most often met with stares and sniggers when I step outside to light up with them. Worst of all, though, are the comments I get, both in volume and content. Four and five times a day I’ll be treated to one witty observation or another. A common one is “Hey, my grandpa smoked a pipe.” This very often comes from attractive females my own age. It’s really good to know when you remind a woman of their grandpa, you’ll better understand your chances of getting her number then. By far the most common witticism to be directed at me is this little gem: Hey, man. Watcha’ smokin’ in that pipe? This will usually be followed by a hand gesture implying that I am actually smoking from a joint or bong or some such. This was not funny the first time that I heard it and it had become increasingly less so ever since. I didn’t start out hating pot smokers. I may choose to become inebriated and escape reality through other means, but if that’s their bag (pun intended) I’m fine with it. The fact, though, that they have so tainted the public image of pipe smoking of any kind really causes me to want to lash out in a very un-pipe-smokerlike fashion. It is only fair, given that I get this kind of flack from many pot smokers I encounter. Here in the Pacific Northwest I encounter a lot of them. It seems that they are far less beleaguered by persecution than any tobacco users. They practically toke up on street corners with impunity in some parts of Oregon. Perhaps it’s time that I redress the balance of ridicule and give them a taste of their own medicine. Hey, dude. What are ya’ smokin’ in that pipe. Is it Erinmore Flake? McClelland’s Arcadia Mixture? That is some dank shit. Hey, was your piece made by Dunhill or Charatan of London. Dude!
Somehow, I think the reference would be lost.