Cigars – Downright Neighborly, Don’tcha Think?
Sunday morning here in northern New Jersey couldn’t have been any more spectacular – 67 degrees, blue sky and sunny at 9:30 am. The wife and kiddies were away at the shore so I got myself a big-ass egg sammich, a Janitor in a drum sized mug o’ java, the Sunday newspaper, and a Gloria Cubana Serie R Natural to hang on the back patio with.
Breakfast was awesome, and now my Nicaraguan Ligero dessert was all ready to be enjoyed as the fresh morning dew and the perfect spring breeze assured me I was about to relax, big-time. Well… that’s what I thought…
“EXCUSE-A ME!,” the shreaking voice of an old European woman blurted out, like the sound of a needle being zipped across and old phonograph record. I look up and my neighbor’s mother has her head stuck through my forsythia bushes with the face that only an surly old ethnic woman can make.
“Your-a seegar steenks all-a da way over heer and I don’t need’s my grand keeds being poisoned while jumping on da tramp-a-leene! You putta dat a goa damma ting out rite now!”
Now the trampoline is about 45 to 50 feet away from where I’m sitting on MY GOD DAMNED PROPERTY! My first inclination was to throw my hot coffee into that sour puss and blow smoke rings around her haggy dome… But I just sat there and calmly replied, “YOU HAVE GOT TO BE FRIGGIN KIDDING ME, LADY!” Okay, I was a little less tactful than maybe I should have been, but what major league psycho path of a person demands that someone sitting on their own property put out the ten dollar premium aged, Dominican made cigar that they’re smoking?
“I am on my own property enjoying a 100% LEGAL product out in the open air and you have the audacity to demand I stop smoking?” I could tell by the confused look on her ruddy face that she had no idea what the word audacity meant, but that really didn’t stop her from being a totally rude jackass.
“Leesen meester, I’m-a not gonna tell a you again!”
“Well that’s good,” I let her know, “Cuz I was gonna just sit here and enjoy the hell out of my cigar so please go back on your side of the property and leave me alone!”
“So you doan care dat you are-a poisoning da cheeldrin?”
“Lady, now you’re REALLY pissing me off… and to make the allegation (another big word she didn’t know) that I’m killing you’re grand kids is completely insane! How about taking away their Koolaid and Gummy Bears and I guarantee that will help them extend their expected lifespan… Now PLEASE LEAVE!”
Now the old coot has her hands on her hips, bobbing her head, and is dancing around like a semi-trained circus bear behind the bushes. Then, she actually says to me, “I’m a gonna come over dere and putta dat damn ting outta myself!”
Okay, this broad is certifiably nutso, so I pick up my brandy-new and cool iphone and tell her, “Come on over, grandma, I’m dialing the police right now. And of course you know that almost all cops love a good cigar?”
“You-a son ov a beetch! I’m-a tellin’ my Son-een-law rite now!”
Now my neighbor, Bill is a cool guy and has warned me in the past that his mother-in-law was originally from Hades before coming to the United States. And wouldn’t you know it, cool old Bill comes out onto his deck and yells out, “Nana!… get over here and leave Tommy alone! What in the name of God is wrong with you?”
“He’s a keeling Stehanie and-a Michael!” she blurted out like someone who definitely missed taking her horse pills that morning.
“Bill,” I said very calmly, “Can you make her go away before I blow my Polack stack?! She was gonna come over here and put out my cigar!”
“I am SOOOOOO sorry, Zman, Bill said with total sincerity. “Can you even imagine the crap that I go through every time she visits?”
I just stood there dumbfounded, making a silent face in return, the kind that clearly said, “Wow… you poor mother f@#ker.”
“GET IN THE HOUSE NOW, NANA! If you ever bother our neighbors again I’ll have you deported!”
Damn, I didn’t know you could deport someone back to hell, but I’m sure Satan doesn’t want any part of that old loon, as well. So, old sour-bag the Smoke Nazi stomped her lime green Crocs like a five year-old, while swearing like a drunk-ass, eastern block sailor as she scurried her barn-door buttocks into the house.
“Bill, you owe me, bro,” I said in all seriousness.
He nodded in agreement and assured me it wouldn’t happen again.
That night, some ten hours after my clash with the Devil’s concubine, the doorbell rings, and Bill is standing there with a six pack of icy-cold Stellas and a couple of “real-deal” Cuban Monte’s he picked up on his trip to Antigua a month ago. I shook my head letting him know that all was forgiven. He also had a bag of produce in his hands and told me to take it.
“They’re fresh Hot peppers,” he said with a smile. “The smell of them barbecued makes my mother-in-law want to hurl her guts up, when she gets a whiff. Thought you might like to grill some up with tomorrow’s dinner.”
Wow, now THAT’s what I call being downright neighborly.
Tommy Z . JR Cigars Blog With the Zman
