I swear I never intended to become one, but it just kind of happened. Out of the total blue, when I was least expecting it, I, Tommy Z, became a cigar snob.
I think I’ve been one for quite some time but could never admit it. All the signs were there but I just continued to ignore them. Like every time I lose my patience when I light up and some clueless boner asks me, “Is that a Cuban?”
Why does every turd who knows absolutely nothing of the fine art of puro enjoyment, feel the need to ask if the tobacco stick dangling from my lips, is a Cuban cigar? I really do get all uppity and act like a pompous ass, inquiring why they need to know? “Are you with the Feds?” I’ll ask, “I mean you do know that obtaining Cuban cigars on U.S. soil is an act of treason?” That’s when they kind of do an awkward half chuckle, not knowing if I’m a total asshole or not. Of course I realize that they’re just trying to make conversation and that they know zilch about the fruits of the Isle de Cuba. But it’s such a novice question and the fact that it does peeve me, truly shows that I am indeed a goddamned cigar snob.
Okay, NOTHING pisses this snob off more than the blithering idiots who bring out the fake Cohibas at a party or an outdoor function. “Hey Zman… have I got some great contraband for you,” says my well-intentioned neighbor, who breaks out the glass-top humidor box, chock full of “faux-hibas” that his buddy got in Ontario last week. “Wow,” I’ll say with a dagger full of rye sarcasm, “A Cohiba with a gray colored wrapper. I’ve never seen a goddamned gray wrapper before. You order these special?” Of course my pal gets all indignant, swearing that they’re real and that his buddy is Cuban. “I don’t care if you’re buddy is Castro’s f@#king lawn guy, these are fake pieces of mierde, and get them out of my presence!”
Goddamned snob. I know it.
A friend of mine claimed he uses tap water and a sponge to keep the stoags in his $7 POS humidor, fit. When he opened it up at a barbecue at his house this past summer, every single premium stick was covered in grotesque mold, and I proceeded to bang him over the head with a ring of uncooked kielbasa. Stupid bastid! And yes, he tried to convince me, “Uh… it’s something called plume… or bloom… and it good for the cigars!” Friggin moron! The only thing that they’re now good for is curing gonorrhea. (Blogger’s note: I had to look up the spelling of gonorrhea and unfortunately, the first dictionary I found was complete with vivid photographic images. Yow.) You simply cannot cheap out when attempting to care for your prized, hand-rolled smokes.
Then there was this morning, where my snobbery reached an all-time high. I was taking my daughter back to her college dorm, when I passed a convenience store with a sign that said, “Humidor Inside Filled With Premium Hand-Rolled Quality Cigars.” Okay, I made the mental note and knew it would be a definite stop on the way back. I’ve found over the years that sometimes these out of the way bodegas have some hard-to-find primo smokes and I have scored some great stuff in the past – including a bevy of legit Cubanos, complete with the appropriate brown colored wrappers.
So I walked in and Apu asked if he could help me. “Just point me to the humidor,” I said with some early morning fervor. Instead of leading me to a back room, harboring a glass-encased walk-in shrine filled with Padron Anni’s, VSG’s, and Monte Edmundos – the dude pulls out a dusty, old wooden box from underneath the counter, and proceeds to show me ten POS brands that I never heard of, wrapped in crinkly, yellowed cellophane.
“You have GOT TO be yanking my cobra, chief!” Damn, I was not a happy feller.
“Deese are delicious hand-rolled cigars,” he assured me. “I get dem from reliable source.”
“Goddammit, Apu! This is pure crap! You put that sign in the window and make me stop in here for crap! You’re a liar, that’s what you are!”
“Boolsheet!” he yelled out in his defense. “ Deese are made from Cuban seed!”
“Yeah, well I was made from human seed, and your cigars are utter worthless Shinola! Do you even know what that means, you liar?!”
“You get out of my store! You insult me!” he bellowed, while pointing a can of Raid Ant & Roach spray at me.
“You’re the one who insulted decent gentlemen everywhere, with your ridiculous claim of ‘premium’ hand-rolled goodness! I eschew you, you broken-Englished son of a bitch!”
“GET OUT!!! I CALL COPS!!!” he started screaming while flailing his insect killer, about.
So, I wisely high-tailed out of that hole, as I didn’t think a face full of pesticide would help my morning commute, any. But god damn… why couldn’t I just politely smile and say I’d be back, or that I forgot my wallet, or any other friendlier response, than the one accusing our shop keep (with the incredible nudie book & scratch-off lottery selection) of vile tobacco laden atrocities?
What the hell is wrong with me?
I am a cigar snob… that’s what’s wrong with me. I’m not sure exactly when it happened, but I do now admit that I am ass-deep in full-fledge snobbery, and some sort of 12-step intervention may be the only way out of this gut-wrenching conundrum.
Say… are you a snob, too? Hello, My Name is Zman and I am a Cigar Snob…
Tommy Z.
JR Cigars Blog With the Zman
I received this Davidoff Millennium Piramide as a gift for my birthday. This Cigar was paired with a Heineken beer not so much for the paring, but as it was just less than 90 degrees when I chose to do this.
