Friday, January 17, 2014

Smoke a Cigar


Last weekend, Spouse's workplace had its we've-been-around-ten-years celebration.  They chose to do it 1920s style.  The invitation had a 20s feel, like the Empire State Building, only on paper, and was gussied up with a 1920s font.

(All decades have a font, don't they?  What's our current decade's font?  Times Roman?  It certainly isn't Comic Sans.  Ick.  Or maybe it is?  Yowzers.  I should do a post on fonts.  That would be fun.)

If I could choose to renaissance a fashion, any fashion, it would be the 1920s - 1930s fashion.  It's dapper, flattering for almost all body types, and has pizazz.  This party could be fun.

And so it was, on Saturday, January 11, 2014, Spouse initiated costumes and I applied munitions; we were dudded up and ready.  I was a choice bit of calico; a real bearcat.  My zoot-suited bimbo was the cat's pajamas.  A couple of East American Fork eggs, we were hotsy-totsy and ready to blouse.  All we needed was a little giggle-water and some noodle-juice.

Oh.  And a cigar.  To keep us from looking like complete oilcans, we needed a cigar.  "Better stop at The Sev for a cigar. But first let's go to Vera's for a photo." We went to Vera's and she took our photo.


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Father Time, wearing his Cheaters, and his Flour-Flushing Tomato


Vera had Running Brother Bruce and his lovely wife as company.  I mentioned the need to stop at The Sev for a cigar.  This is when Running Brother Bruce became ten sheets to excited.  "Cigar?!  I got a cigar!"  He was a bit spifflicated to begin with, but the prospect of showcasing a fancy cuban turned the night into a downright sockdollager.  Out the door he went.  Came back in five with his cigar.

Now Stu, the man manacled to Vera, knew his onions.  "You don't wanna take that cigar.  Lemme see that."  Took the cigar.  Studied it.  "Rolled in 1999... yup... that cigar is worth $3000."

Horsefeathers!  $3000?

Who would smoke a $3000 cigar?  Who would even pay for a $3000 cigar?  I cannot imagine paying $3000 for anything consumable.  Not food, not drink.  Not sex either.  Which brings up the topic of hookers.  It's a profession of consumption.  I wouldn't even pay Spouse $3000 for a hook-up unless it was for charity.  I would, however,  sport a million for a life time of hook-ups with Spouse, because as you might know, marriage hook-ups are like fine cheese:  they get better with age.

(If you do the math, you'll see that a million divided by $3000, is 333.33.  So after 333.33 times of hooking up, the price drops below $3000.  At 75 for each of 40 years,  that's 3000 total hook-ups,  making it a bargain $333.33 for each.  And you thought math wasn't sexy.)

Just like cheese, though, and with age, the marriage relations can get stale and moldy.  When this happens it's time to pasteurize – you pasteurize the marriage with lacy accoutrements.

One time – don't tell Spouse about this... (he isn't reading because he has a new job and is studying and has no time for my garbage) – one time, I was mad at Spouse.  I mean MAD.  I don't recall why.  So I decided to show him.  I threw out all my lacy accoutrements.  All of them.  Did he notice?  Nah.   That really showed him, didn't it?  Once the lacys were gone, it turned out I had to show him even more.

While we're on the subject of hook-ups and lace, let us discuss Valentine's Day.  It's around the corner.  I've seen many a groupon and slickdeal for boudoir photos.  This is one of those things I might never understand.  I'm all about free will and whatnot, so if you want a boudoir photo go for it.  You want to make money taking boudoir photos?  Again, go for it.  You could rebut with an "it's art!" but something tells me that the average boudoir glossy won't make its way into any of the Smithsonians.

Mostly I don't understand its purpose.  Who wants a photo of a 30-something house-wife trying to be a Victoria Secret model?  And then, what do you do with the photo?  Hang it in the hall next to your fourth grader's toothless class picture?  Or do you display it proudly on your work desk next to the glamour shot your wife gave you ten years ago?

What's going to happen, is you will give it to your spouse (loved one, friend with benefit... whatever) and he'll stow it in his wallet or on his (wink-wink) laptop's hard drive.  Yes, that's a great idea!  He will feel its presence and accompanying reminder: "Look hunny! Here's a photo of something you can have only when I say you can have it!"

Tee-hee.  Heee.

Would I want a boudoir photo of Spouse.  Hmmmm.  Nah.  Unless it was the provocative display of a menial household chore.  Dishes, perhaps. He, on the other hand, might want one. If I asked he'd say sure.  And then I'd say what do you want me to wear. And then he'd say a push-up bra, track bummies, ski boots, and a Red-Head Blackout bow with laser sight and tuned whisker biscuit.

Smoke on that visual for a bit.  Sorry to ruin your day.

Now back to the cigars.  We left the $3000 cigar with Running Brother Bruce and decided not to stop at The Sev for a cigar, 'cause, like, we don't need no stinky cigar, do we?  We drove directly to the party – appropriately staged in a place called "The Underground."  A 1920s vehicle was out front.  A man was at the door, guarding it with a Toy Tommy.

"What's the password?"

Spouse looked at the invite.  It said the password was "Smoke a Cigar."

See?!  Complete oilcans.


1 comment:

Winder said...

Wowsa! That was a good read. Had me laughing(that was when I wasn't looking up the meaning to many a word) Glad to see you back and at it rabid!