eat a carton a day

That’s very kind of you sir, now will you please stop smiling at me? You look like you eat a carton of cigarettes every day and have been doing that for at least a year.

I can’t say if the clerk at my local 7-11 is a smoker, if he hasn’t brushed his teeth since he was 14, if he’s from Flint, MI, or if he eats dirt in his free time -what I can say is that his grill is jacked-the-fuck-up!

He has a sparkling personality and I’m sure he can skin a fish, or any other kind of animal, with nothing but a pocket knife and a paperclip in 2 minutes flat. I wish he’d not smile so toothily at me when we chat in the mornings, however. I have great difficulty focusing on anything other than the mangled mess inside his facehole. I also don’t like having to acknowledge what a gigantic piece of shit I am for seeing him for his teeth. Well, his teeth, his camouflage baseball cap, his heavy accent, (probably from LA) and the monstrous armpit stains he’s sporting. Quite an accomplishment considering it’s a black work shirt with some peek-a-boo belly action happening.

Now that I’ve painted a vision of a stereotypical redneck, let me tell you what a sweetheart he is. He’s a sweetheart. There, better? Am I redeemed? Hardly digging myself out the grave I’ve dug for myself, huh? It’s cool, it’s comfy in here. I’m going to call him Clive. Clive is a nice guy. Each morning I buy the same thing and he never pokes fun at me: bag of pretzels, gummy worms, gum, and coffee. I’m predictable as a motherfucker.

He always seems surprised that I’m on my way to work though, this baffles me. Dude, I get here the same fucking time every day. Every day you ask me if my day is just starting. One day I’m going to look directly at him and say, “No, Clive, I pulled an all-nighter whoring and I’m on my way home right now. It was a doozy, so I’m just picking up some refreshments and I’m headed home to get some shut eye.”

I really ought to practice not being such an asshole, but what fun would that be? Most of what I write are “inside thoughts,” that I have only in my head. The shit that is wildly inappropriate and sure to get my ass handed to me if I let it slip in public. Some of it I share with a select group of other assholes, who I know won’t judge me because they don’t have a leg to stand on. The rest of it I accidently blurt out at completely inappropriate times, like funerals and birthday parties.

It’s understandable why I’m able to count the number of friends I have on one hand. It’s not that people don’t think I’m funny, or enjoy my company, it’s just they’d rather not risk getting caught in a situation where they’ll have to defend themselves because of some stupid shit I say.

Back to Clive…

Talking shit about Clive’s mangled grill got me thinking about my own time spent as a smoker. I was the type of smoker all the other smokers' wanted to beat up in a darkened alley – I could always walk away from it when I wanted. Imagine me – my shitty personality; now add a cigarette affliction. Smelly hair and stinky hands. I’m already foul, add to that an addiction that required a program of maintenance and allowed for feelings of entitlement. I was an absolute pleasure to be around!

You don’t see ads for smoking like you used to. Smoking is fucking gross. I won’t get all soap-boxy about it. I smoked, and can’t, with total certainty, say I won’t ever do it again. But, it’s fucking gross. There, I’m done with that mini-rant…

I went digging for smoking propaganda. I’m pretty stoked at some of the shit I scored. Far and away, Benson and Hedges was pimping cancer sticks in the most fashionable way for the longest time. Virginia Slims, aka Vagina Slimes, did a great job marketing their demographic. They targeted women and their most vulnerable weakness; their waistlines. A lot of the ads talk about women being slender – giving women the idea that smoking will make you thin. Hey, so will crack cocaine, but I guess smokes are cheaper.

Anyway, kick up your feet, light up your smoke, and enjoy some marketing genius.