Stubs
I'm a smoker. I like to smoke cigarettes. Most of the time, this doesn't present immediate problems for me - I don't smoke in places where I'm not allowed to, I'm generally able to go through a cigarette from start to finish without burning holes in myself, and I don't, knock on wood, have any terminal diseases.
There is one aspect of the whole process, however, that never fails to make me come across as a modern-day village idiot, the kind that beams at you benignly while drooling on your shoes. See, through years of practice I've polished the actual act of smoking to a very refined level, but when it comes to the inevitable moment of putting the thing out, my arm invariably considers it a great idea to perform an impression of the eastern water cobra in its death throes.
Any persons present are then treated to a morbid post-modern danse macabre, wherein the principal players (my hand, my still-glowing cigarette and whatever cold, discarded cigarette butts may be present in the tray) create a whirling maelstrom of light and fury on the porcelain stage. As I earnestly stab the ashtray (displaying much the same intensity as a man might were he using a toothpick to punish the cockroach that killed his family), the cherry will break off the cigarette and fly into the single most populated area of the ashtray, where it will proceed to ignite the nearest filter (always a filter), as well as my temper.
A tiny ember will, of course, remain on my cigarette butt, requiring me to twist and mangle the thing in creative ways in an attempt to suffocate the final hopeful flame. This invariably leads to my fingers being covered in ash - a feeling I can claim no love for - and has, on more than one occasion, created a forceful spasm of disgust in my forearm, strong enough to send the entire ashtray flying through the air, dispensing cancerous confetti in slow motion, showering those present with sooty nicotine love. Whatever claims to dignity I may have had in the moments preceding this are irretrievably lost; the people near me, if still alive, will either be laughing, crying, or reaching for a weapon of some kind.
Also, I snort in ashtrays. An innocent little half-laugh. Fwoosh. Look, it's snowing black.
Sometimes I'm so cool I can hardly believe it.
There is one aspect of the whole process, however, that never fails to make me come across as a modern-day village idiot, the kind that beams at you benignly while drooling on your shoes. See, through years of practice I've polished the actual act of smoking to a very refined level, but when it comes to the inevitable moment of putting the thing out, my arm invariably considers it a great idea to perform an impression of the eastern water cobra in its death throes.
Any persons present are then treated to a morbid post-modern danse macabre, wherein the principal players (my hand, my still-glowing cigarette and whatever cold, discarded cigarette butts may be present in the tray) create a whirling maelstrom of light and fury on the porcelain stage. As I earnestly stab the ashtray (displaying much the same intensity as a man might were he using a toothpick to punish the cockroach that killed his family), the cherry will break off the cigarette and fly into the single most populated area of the ashtray, where it will proceed to ignite the nearest filter (always a filter), as well as my temper.
A tiny ember will, of course, remain on my cigarette butt, requiring me to twist and mangle the thing in creative ways in an attempt to suffocate the final hopeful flame. This invariably leads to my fingers being covered in ash - a feeling I can claim no love for - and has, on more than one occasion, created a forceful spasm of disgust in my forearm, strong enough to send the entire ashtray flying through the air, dispensing cancerous confetti in slow motion, showering those present with sooty nicotine love. Whatever claims to dignity I may have had in the moments preceding this are irretrievably lost; the people near me, if still alive, will either be laughing, crying, or reaching for a weapon of some kind.
Also, I snort in ashtrays. An innocent little half-laugh. Fwoosh. Look, it's snowing black.
Sometimes I'm so cool I can hardly believe it.
posted by fnoonf at 14:47
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