This cigar is the size of a baby's arm. One of them souvenier bats they sell at the ballpark. A tree limb. It's completely and utterly pornographic and I apologize for this, my smut peddling. It's a Gordo? A Magnum? A Gigante? It's just now lit and burning up one-side only. 6x70 in cigar lingo and for the inadept, six inches long and an inch in diameter, say. This sits atop a Google search via a Bobalu Cigar Co.: "The ring gauge is measured in units of 1/64th of an inch. A 64-ring cigar would be one inch in diameter. Most cigars are between 32 and 52-ring size. For example, a cigar that is called "8 x 48" is 8 inches long and 48/64ths of an inch in diameter." The cigar is a Maduro top-leaf'd thing, rolled in the Dominican and stufft-some with Ligero. Strange I know all that and will now expect ya to believe I've no good clue as to what it is, speaking in-terms of company/brand. Found it unbanded at the bottom of my humidor, I did. "Wink wink nudge nudge" followed by, "say no more, say no more."
Ah, the burn she evens-out. Milk chocolate-y notes hit my mouf fully. This ain't your grandfather's internet cigar review. Yet I do lay claim to the Kaplowitz Family and its roots going back in blogging to 1902. Podcasting, 1918. Insane blathering, 1894. But that simply stemmed from the Rabbinical-source years. Now my Judaism consists of schtick Yiddish, avoiding ham, shellfish, and not avoiding folklore and superstition. Spit upon my own finger-tips and thrice say kineahora. "The derivation of the phrase is from the German kein, meaning no, and the Hebrew ayin ha-rah, the evil eye. The kein and ayin are blended into one word: kein or kayn -- keinahora. (There are many ways to spell it, and in our dictionary we chose kineahora.) When you say the Yiddish quickly, it can sound like "canary," which is why some people can be heard to say, "We’re supposed to leave next week for vacation, so don’t give me a canary."" (The Word Mavens)
There's something sour, a citrus rind in dirt. White pepper. I dressed in the dark this morning, 5am. Donned black socks under black Vans and it looks just atrocious. Thankfully the old pilled and bleach-stained sweatpants atrociously distract. Actually, there's a drop of bleach-stain on the toe of my left shoe. I prefer using bleach when I clean the kitchen. And bathroom. I'd blame my germ centric fastidious on flu-season, but in truth it is a year-round thing. Boxing is a year-round thing, and I tire of it at times like now. Cotto lost, whomever said they saw that coming is a liar until they furnish time-stamped proof. And the Japanese Babe Ruth said no thanks to the Yanks. It's a strange whirled in which we live. At least mine is rather sanitized.
Pale grains. My jaw hurts, sucking on this thing and my own vulgarities have my own lacy panties in a bunch. “Democracy! Bah! When I hear that I reach for my feather boa!” - Allen Ginsberg. Now what kinda homosexual deviant wears a boa? I probably won't post this. Stanley Zbornak asking Dorothy to paint his nails 'cause 'we just invaded Korea.' We find power where we can. I don't really wear panties much, but it's more of a comfort thing. Plus I have a flat-as-board tuchus. Wouldn't do justice to the designer's intent. I can't so-much find the blender's intent within this cigar. Maybe it was just "BIG." That's a noble intent. I guess. It feels funny in my hand. Soft on my palate.
Sweatpants. With thermals under-neath. Fall. Late Fall. I'm on my porch all the time, or the porch of my local cigar shop since I can no longer smoke inside even there. I looked all-over for camaraderie here in the People's Republic of Oregon. Found it there. Brothers of the Leaf is a true-thing. That's why it remains the focus of this blog even when I go stream of consciousness silly. Peanuts... peanut brittle? But soft on my cheeks and only a slight tingle on my tongue. This is a public workout. An exercise in stringing out the thoughts of my ruminations. I got me tsuris. Tsuris that needs unwinding even if it's too late for all that. I probably won't post this.
Maybe I'll post this. An announcement of focus, shifted. Somewhere (and if you find it, let me know) exists a photo of me standing in a crib, wearing my maternal grandfather's fedora drooped over my eyes and with a cigar of his he stuck in my mouth. Imagine if that was done to-day?! To-day what's done is busy-work. After I finish tripping the QWERTY cigar-centric(ish) I'll hit the kitchen again with bleach. Take a shower, no bleach, putter 'round till later when I plan on running errands. Supermarket, mainly.
Have you ever noticed [observational humor, Jerry Seinfeld voice] that the shortest check-out lines keep you standing in them the longest? The other day I jumped behind a pretty lady in high heels (the filth of this post). It was just her in front of me so I figured it'd take a second-or-two only. She had like three items. Then her husband passes in front of me with a full shopping cart and my few items are already on the conveyor belt. Someone else's already behind mine. TRAPPED. And what's with lap throws? My arms and chest are freezing! Leaf blowers? Don't get me started! Where are you blowing to??? A nice cream is poured into whatever this is I'm smoking. There's some bit of cardboard bite, too and tho. Darker chocolate. Stiffer. Darker earth with black pepper sprinkled -- poured in. The Ligero is back-loaded. Strength rises. Notes all bite a bit.
I'm more and more liking Groucho Marx, the Marx Brothers. Wordsmithing suits me better than slap-sticking Stooges truth-be-told. Although this ain't proof a' that and I probably won't post this anyways. Did you know Groucho coulda had Jack Parr's slot? Did you also know that for some reason I cannot get the latest Bill Burr podcast to load/play? It sorta buffers like I was sent back a decade. If I was sent back a decade, I'm not sure I'd be where I am now. Would you? Comment below and BTW, comments are closed. I like to talk at people, not with them, let-alone to them. Tsuris. The Pre-Code Marx Bros paved the way for Lenny Bruce and he paved the way for not being able to say a gosh-darned thing, currently. The world is sad because comedy is dead a bissell. I should know. By the way, I hope you dropped the Seinfeld voice by now -- didn't mean to leave you Robin Williams-ing. Too soon, I know and probably you aren't even still reading. Good on ya. Kineahora.
Send me gelt. Gelt helps the tsuris abate.
My upper lip is schvitzing. Yesterday at the Shop, Cigars on 7th, conveniently located in downtown Eugene OR on Lincoln St. I sucked down a high HIGH nicotine thing and swooned as off-colored jokes were swapped. I hope the fellas and Lenny Bruce didn't think I glazed-over on account of content. In 'real life' whatever that is, I do curse the proverbial blue-streak. Just not here -- publicly. I like that now my Rabbi can read my words. Although not these, as they probably won't be posted. I used to work blue, made more enemies than moolah, stopped. Joe Rogan and Roseanne each took offensive offense as to my words. I won't repeat them. Both people are very nice and very talented. Handsome and pretty, too. The strength of whatever this cigar is, is sitting in my gut. Starchy, like comfort food. But I like less pepper in my gravy.
I think I'll punch this up and post it. Yeah. Or maybe not punch it up. You'll never know, gentlepersons. I don't wanna be held as accountable as a sports writer. Or anything at all, other than Groucho but he's dead. I guess that's the news. I did hint at changes to come. It's gonna get weird(er). Every-time I see a weirdo here in Eugene, I yell "Keep Portland weird!" Meaning, of course, "Gay avec!" From now on, "Come hither so's I can open-mouth kiss ya!" What can go wrong? [Spit upon my own finger-tips and thrice say kineahora.]
Report a typo, win a No-prize.
I'll most-likely tell you it was intentional.
"I Got Married" Kaplowitz Radio: November 29, 2017