Of Biotches and Cigars
A rare event took place this past weekend where my wife and I were invited to two barbecue parties on the same day. There was one early Saturday afternoon and one in the evening. Actually it’s rare that I get invited to anything at all. I think the fact that I smell like a blend of smoldering Central American tobacco and foul kielbasa farts, 24 / 7, has a little something to do with it. I really can’t think of anything else, and yes, God bless my wife and kids, is right.
I love barbecues and the weather was spectacular – mid to high 70’s, crystal blue sky – making for a beauteous day of gorging, drinking, and 
smoking until my head and stomach imploded. My wife knows all too well to stay clear of my animalistic rituals and to just hang with her friends. I am not a pleasant site once the chow is served. I’m always first in line and admittedly have a problem with leaving food for the other guests. Hog, horse, wolf, whatever kind of wild creature you want to label me is just fine and dandy as long as my trough is filled and liquid grains are flowing.
The first party had a lot of great home cooked Italian delights on the menu such as chicken parm, sausage and peppers, and ziti with vodka sauce – traditional fare for an outdoor fest here in northern New Jersey. Only Paulie Wanuts and Christopher Moltisanti were missing from the picture. I did my double stack load on several reinforced paper plates and headed for somewhere in the shade to consume. After several helpings of pure foodie goodness, a nice cigar was in order, and a dark little Honduran flavor bomb by the name of the Punch Champion was the choice for my mid-chow, palate cleansing.
So I stoke up this oily little plum bob shaped figurado and enjoy it paired with a tasty Belgium brew. Damn this is nice… so peaceful, so fulfilling, so relaxing… until the shrew from about 25 feet away comes over and asks me – no get this – tells me to either move or put it out. I look her in the eyes and ask with total innocence, “Put what out?”
That disgusting weed you’re poisoning the children at the party with. I said you mean the kids who are inhaling the nitrate laden fat filled weenies, heavily salted deep-fried snack treats, and cans of soda that contain no less than ten teaspoons of white processed sugar? You mean those kids?”
“I don’t need a smart-ass remark, I just need you to move, god dammit.”
Okay, I know I’m at a neighbors house, and I know I shouldn’t cause any kind of scene, but I have been provoked to the limit by some suburbanite house-frau with a kegger around the mid-section and a message on her answering machine that says, “Hey it’s the 1980’s calling and we want our feathered, big-poof hairstyle back.” So what do I do? I ignore her and continue to puff while she stands there with hand on hip and a look on her face like her tampons needed changing about three full days ago.
“If you don’t move, I will put that out for you,” miss congeniality says in her atomic brazen shrew voice.
Almost motionless, I turn only my eyes upon her and utter the following words in a deadpan tone, “Touch my cigar and you will no longer be able to use those hands for stuffing Big Macs down your gullet, you incredibly rude sow.”
Her head then cocked to one side with a facial expression of horror and discontent.
Before she could get in a word edge wise, I finished my thought – I swear to the Lord I told her, “Now get the f@#k out of my face before I put YOU out.”
Holy good God in heaven, this bitch went psycho berserk – ranting, frothing, flailing her arms and screaming for the host of the party. Now I’m just sitting there, minding my own beeswax, enjoying the hell out of a glorious day, and madame hell-hole starts throwing a tantrum like she just found out that the Price is Right has been canceled.
My pal and his wife come running over, as does my wife, wanting to know what the hell is going on in pleasantville. When they see who is making the trouble my wife and friend roll their eyes as my buddy’s wife grabs Ms. Floating Turd in the Punchbowl by the arm and marches her behind the shed for a little beat down. Seems this broad is a well-known biotch in the town and doesn’t care what she says to people, and how she says it. My buddy (and my nightly cigar companion) is pissed beyond belief and my wife – who hates cigars (isn’t that special) actually sticks up for me. That crazy broad goes so bonkers that she flips over a cheese platter, grabs her ugly little horse-faced vermin she calls children, and starts screaming that she’ll never come to another party in this neighborhood again! Wow – she told us! Now how will I go on through the daily routines in my life?
Thank God that everyone at the party was on my side, and even my wife didn’t give me any grief – but she did make me promise that I wouldn’t smoke a cigar at the next party that we were headed to. So I promised, like the good husband that I am.
Oh, who am I kidding. I lit up a Camacho Triple Maduro in the woods on the side of our friend’s house.
And that’s my story, and yeah, I’m sticking to it.
Respect my author-i-tie,
Tommy Z.
JR Cigars Blog with the Zman
