A Pipesmoker's Hell

The part of the church where the silliest things happen. Conversations that sound like they belong in the youth room will be moved here.
User avatar
UncleBob
CPS Theological Dogmatician
CPS Theological Dogmatician
Posts: 32077
Joined: Tue Aug 03, 2004 6:00 pm
Location: Lubbock, TX USA
Contact:

A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by UncleBob » Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:13 am

hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:07 am
Does a pipe smoking hell exist? If it does, I'd say it's one of those poor things with a broken stem and a cracked bowl.
Good question. I would imagine filled with Bo Nordh pipes (carved in that Savinelli Author shape) only with restricted draws that always smoke wet. Plus, the only 'baccy available is Mixture No. 79. And you can only light up with Old Boys while standing in a 10 mph breeze.
"One man's theology is another man's belly laugh." - Robert A. Heinlein

"Many of the points here, taken to their logical conclusions, don't hold up to logic; they're simply Godded-up ways of saying "I don't like that." - Skip

User avatar
coco
Uniquely Duggish
Uniquely Duggish
Posts: 27032
Joined: Sun Feb 01, 2009 6:00 pm
Location: Sweet Home Alabama
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by coco » Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am

cobs
"Like a gold ring in a pig's snout is a cob with a forever lucite stem." (Pipverbs 1:1)
"No more signatures that quote other CPS members." - Thunk

User avatar
Rusty
Come and see the violence inherent in the system!
Come and see the violence inherent in the system!
Posts: 24879
Joined: Thu May 01, 2008 6:00 pm
Location: Beelzebub's Rare Tobacco Emporium

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by Rusty » Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:30 am

UncleBob wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:13 am
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:07 am
Does a pipe smoking hell exist? If it does, I'd say it's one of those poor things with a broken stem and a cracked bowl.
Good question. I would imagine filled with Bo Nordh pipes (carved in that Savinelli Author shape) only with restricted draws that always smoke wet. Plus, the only 'baccy available is Mixture No. 79. And you can only light up with Old Boys while standing in a 10 mph breeze.
You've got it backwards. You're conflating American consumerism with Christendom. This isn't valid and it's probably not Christian.
Beelzebub's is not what you're presuming smoking in hell should be. It's actually the relaxation of all constraints, including time and space. All products are there because it's not Christian.

Beelzebub's Rare Tobacco Emporium, #2 Hell's Way on the main concourse.... just ask for Rusty.
You should probably start thinking of Hell as Six Flags over Hell rather than the awful medieval thing of old.
Last edited by Rusty on Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:36 am, edited 1 time in total.
"I am not the orthodox light-quantizer for whom you take me." Einstein reassurance to Lorentz, Jan. 1911

Image

User avatar
hugodrax
All Around Nice Guy
All Around Nice Guy
Posts: 14345
Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2013 6:00 pm
Location: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by hugodrax » Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am

coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Etiam mihi opinio anserem perirent.

User avatar
coco
Uniquely Duggish
Uniquely Duggish
Posts: 27032
Joined: Sun Feb 01, 2009 6:00 pm
Location: Sweet Home Alabama
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by coco » Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:40 am

hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
:lol:
"Like a gold ring in a pig's snout is a cob with a forever lucite stem." (Pipverbs 1:1)
"No more signatures that quote other CPS members." - Thunk

User avatar
Goose55
Del's Love Child
Del's Love Child
Posts: 4578
Joined: Thu Feb 11, 2016 6:44 pm
Location: Southern Arizona, U.S.A.

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by Goose55 » Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm

hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
"At present we're on the wrong side of the door. But all the pages of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so." ~ C.S. Lewis

User avatar
Rusty
Come and see the violence inherent in the system!
Come and see the violence inherent in the system!
Posts: 24879
Joined: Thu May 01, 2008 6:00 pm
Location: Beelzebub's Rare Tobacco Emporium

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by Rusty » Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm

Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
"I am not the orthodox light-quantizer for whom you take me." Einstein reassurance to Lorentz, Jan. 1911

Image

User avatar
hugodrax
All Around Nice Guy
All Around Nice Guy
Posts: 14345
Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2013 6:00 pm
Location: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by hugodrax » Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:37 pm

Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
I see many possibilities here. I think "dottle bucket" can be a few things: 1.) Goose likes precise speech and he has a small or large sand-filled bucket he leaves his ashes in to avoid fire hazard like the cigarette buckets you sometimes see outside small businesses; 2.) Goose is a fan of Sherlock Holmes and saves his dottle for the first smoke of the next day; 3.) Goose's pipes are too big and he hasn't yet learned of the joys inherent in the DGT; 4.) Goose is learned in the ways of plants and makes his own nicotine solution as a natural insecticide.

So request for clarification, Sir. What's a "dottle bucket?" Can somebody photoshop one into the Goosian competition?
Etiam mihi opinio anserem perirent.

User avatar
Goose55
Del's Love Child
Del's Love Child
Posts: 4578
Joined: Thu Feb 11, 2016 6:44 pm
Location: Southern Arizona, U.S.A.

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by Goose55 » Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm

Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
"At present we're on the wrong side of the door. But all the pages of the New Testament are rustling with the rumor that it will not always be so." ~ C.S. Lewis

User avatar
Fainn
I've attained the highest rank so far
I've attained the highest rank so far
Posts: 3334
Joined: Fri Jan 29, 2016 8:48 pm

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by Fainn » Sat Sep 30, 2017 10:08 pm

Butt
2016 Winner, Least Likely to Correctly use a Pipe Sock Image

User avatar
Fainn
I've attained the highest rank so far
I've attained the highest rank so far
Posts: 3334
Joined: Fri Jan 29, 2016 8:48 pm

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by Fainn » Sat Sep 30, 2017 10:09 pm

Does this hell last for an eternity or only until Judgment Day?
2016 Winner, Least Likely to Correctly use a Pipe Sock Image

User avatar
JudgeRusty
Didn't even get to wear his hat
Didn't even get to wear his hat
Posts: 5514
Joined: Tue Dec 13, 2011 6:00 pm
Location: VA

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by JudgeRusty » Sun Oct 01, 2017 7:06 am

Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm
Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
and?

What are you saving it for?
Do you expect to save 3 lbs of dottle?
Are you going to smoke it?
Are you going to spread it around your tomato plants next spring?
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal

User avatar
hugodrax
All Around Nice Guy
All Around Nice Guy
Posts: 14345
Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2013 6:00 pm
Location: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by hugodrax » Sun Oct 01, 2017 8:35 am

JudgeRusty wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 7:06 am
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm
Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
and?

What are you saving it for?
Do you expect to save 3 lbs of dottle?
Are you going to smoke it?
Are you going to spread it around your tomato plants next spring?
Also, how much coffee does this guy drink? Who even has cupboard space for a three pound can of coffee? Let alone six pounds, because Costco sells them in two packs?

I can tell you where Pipe Smoker's Hell is. Without shadow of a doubt, it's Ajo, Arizona.

Think about it. After a series of inexplicably bad decisions, an offended God leads you to end up with a broken down car in Ajo, Arizona. You get a tow to J B Auto Repair over at 1440 N 2nd Ave. I encourage you to look at Google Street View at this point. You effed up if you are here.

You can't help noticing the for sale sign over on the Bamboo Village. God forsaken town doesn't have a Chinese restaurant. It has been your experience that the Chinese are the coal miner's canary of small town economic indicators. Town doesn't have any Chinese restaurants, you're looking at a dead town.

Filled with an uneasy dread, but stuck for at least four hours while J or B fixes your car, you cast about for someplace to get a bite to eat. Asking about restaurants, you get sent to Marcela's Cafe and Bakery down on West Dorset Street.

This is the typical diner/greasy spoon common to all small towns in America. Plain food. Bad coffee. A waitress that calls you honey and offers you a slice of pie. Every town you've ever been to had one. Except Lubbock, Tx. This is the only town you might dislike more than Lubbock, Tx, at first sight.

You order the meatloaf because you're in an existential malaise, a feeling of hopelessness washing over your body. Wandering out for a smoke, you fill your pipe with the last shreds of Borkum Riff you bought at that gas station where your car refused to start because, well, to hell with it, your day couldn't get any worse.

That's what you thought. Right as you strike a match, you notice an excited man walking up to you out of the corner of your eye. To be fair, you'd notice this guy anywhere. He's wearing a Smoking Pipes T-Shirt tucked into his dungarees. Rainbow suspenders and a tooled leather belt with a bronze buckle advertising Dad's Root Beer. An Amish straw hat with ribbons is atop his head. On his feet, sensible brown shoes with crepe soles. You'd notice this guy anywhere. He's smoking the most enormous pipe, a bent brandy Ascorti. Well, at least he has some taste, you think.

He strikes up a conversation. Nice guy, you think. Maybe a bit odd, but we're all bozos on this bus. You play along as he tells you about himself, obviously glad at the company. You notice he never makes eye contact, though.

You have lunch together, both glad of a little congenial company. He orders a roast beef sandwich. When it comes, you learn the bulge in his right trouser pocket is not actually, as you had thought, a tobacco pouch but rather a small, Tupperware container with two compartments, one filled with pickled beets, one with Bleu cheese. He carries on the conversation cheerfully, not noticing your slight discomfiture as he carefully arranges the beets and Bleu cheese into a smiley face pattern on his sandwich.

"I see you found Walt," says Betty, your waitress. "He loves his roast beef, pickled beet, and Bleu cheese sanwiches. More coffee, hun?"

When lunch ends, Walt tells you to come over and blow the time by looking at his pipe collection. He offers you some Tudor Castle. Since you're out of tobacco, sans transportation and utterly forlorn, you accept gladly.

You drive to a pleasant little development, if such a thing could truly be said, betokening better times. You hear the happy sounds of playing children next door and are startled by Walt's response. "Kids. Always kids. Laughing and making noise. I often think the world would be better if people just decided to stop breeding and force the Second Coming, don't you." Startled and discomfited, you ask to go back to J B Auto Repair, but Walt won't hear of it. Just now you notice the scorched earth and scattered, burnt trees on his neighbors property. Better not ask, you think.

He shows you his trumpet vine and new air conditioning unit and invites you into his "Arizona Room," really just a screened off enclosure. You can't help noticing the three pound can of Costco coffee, filled with the dottles of god-knows-how-many-pipes. Walt brings out pipes. You can't help but notice every dammed one of them looks the same--large, bent brandy-shaped pipes you could stick your thumb into, with brown, over buffed sandblast finishes. Whoo boy, you think. Just then you notice a cat looking pleadingly at you, attached to the water tank by a dog harness. Overwhelming dread washes over you. You realize god doesn't hate Fainn. He has it in for you.

Everywhere you look, signs of oddity. Stems soaking. Sun bleached stummels like so many dead soldiers scattered in the sun. That damned coffee can.

You pull out your cellphone. It's dying. You're about to be utterly trapped. Knowing what you know about the Arizona police, you know you'll never be found if something goes wrong.

Suddenly the phone rings. 'Sir, this is B over at J B Auto Repair down on N. 2nd Ave," he says. You can't help being a little surprised. His name is actually B. He pronounced it "N. Two-end."

"We found the problem. Turns out your gladiculator went. We ordered a replacement, but it'll take two weeks to get here. This town is a geographic anomaly."

Screw it, you think. I'll make a phone call. Relaxing a little under the influence of the Tudor Castle, you explain the situation to Walt, who cheerfully tells you to come in and use the phone.

"It's a little early, but I'll pour some Kirkland Brand Blended Scotch for both of us. Phone's over by my new Costco work station. I set it up in a u pattern, which wasn't shown in the advertising photos, but I prefer it that way."

He ushers you into a pleasant room with a nice, modern work station. Big computer in the middle. Comfortable chair, you think sitting down. Just then you notice the lamp. The lamp shade is missing its fabric. Just the two wire rings. Huh, you think. Why the?

It's the last thing you ever see as the world fades to black.

-----------------------------

Sorry, Walt. I know you like it. But Ajo looks like Hell to me. I need my Beef Sichuan Home Style with Chili and Salt pickle.
Etiam mihi opinio anserem perirent.

User avatar
philofumo
BROTHERSMOKE, Bizarrely Packaged Wealth of Information
BROTHERSMOKE, Bizarrely Packaged Wealth of Information
Posts: 972
Joined: Thu Sep 05, 2013 6:00 pm
Location: NW Georgia, USA

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by philofumo » Sun Oct 01, 2017 9:14 am

Great thread here.

Good reading.

I use an ashcan, but I prefer the sound of Goose's term dottle bucket.

I use an old Bali Shag can from my RYO days:
Image

Pipesmoker's Hell?

ImageImage

Trying to smoke some Demon Shag in an overly-ghosted Mephistopheles Make pipe while using lousy lucifers...

ImageImageImage
ImageImage
ImageImage

User avatar
UncleBob
CPS Theological Dogmatician
CPS Theological Dogmatician
Posts: 32077
Joined: Tue Aug 03, 2004 6:00 pm
Location: Lubbock, TX USA
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by UncleBob » Mon Oct 02, 2017 12:13 pm

"One man's theology is another man's belly laugh." - Robert A. Heinlein

"Many of the points here, taken to their logical conclusions, don't hold up to logic; they're simply Godded-up ways of saying "I don't like that." - Skip

TNLawPiper
BrotherOfTheBriar YouHeartlessBastards
BrotherOfTheBriar YouHeartlessBastards
Posts: 16908
Joined: Sun Sep 14, 2008 6:00 pm

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by TNLawPiper » Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:15 pm

hugodrax wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 8:35 am
JudgeRusty wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 7:06 am
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm
Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
and?

What are you saving it for?
Do you expect to save 3 lbs of dottle?
Are you going to smoke it?
Are you going to spread it around your tomato plants next spring?
Also, how much coffee does this guy drink? Who even has cupboard space for a three pound can of coffee? Let alone six pounds, because Costco sells them in two packs?

I can tell you where Pipe Smoker's Hell is. Without shadow of a doubt, it's Ajo, Arizona.

Think about it. After a series of inexplicably bad decisions, an offended God leads you to end up with a broken down car in Ajo, Arizona. You get a tow to J B Auto Repair over at 1440 N 2nd Ave. I encourage you to look at Google Street View at this point. You effed up if you are here.

You can't help noticing the for sale sign over on the Bamboo Village. God forsaken town doesn't have a Chinese restaurant. It has been your experience that the Chinese are the coal miner's canary of small town economic indicators. Town doesn't have any Chinese restaurants, you're looking at a dead town.

Filled with an uneasy dread, but stuck for at least four hours while J or B fixes your car, you cast about for someplace to get a bite to eat. Asking about restaurants, you get sent to Marcela's Cafe and Bakery down on West Dorset Street.

This is the typical diner/greasy spoon common to all small towns in America. Plain food. Bad coffee. A waitress that calls you honey and offers you a slice of pie. Every town you've ever been to had one. Except Lubbock, Tx. This is the only town you might dislike more than Lubbock, Tx, at first sight.

You order the meatloaf because you're in an existential malaise, a feeling of hopelessness washing over your body. Wandering out for a smoke, you fill your pipe with the last shreds of Borkum Riff you bought at that gas station where your car refused to start because, well, to hell with it, your day couldn't get any worse.

That's what you thought. Right as you strike a match, you notice an excited man walking up to you out of the corner of your eye. To be fair, you'd notice this guy anywhere. He's wearing a Smoking Pipes T-Shirt tucked into his dungarees. Rainbow suspenders and a tooled leather belt with a bronze buckle advertising Dad's Root Beer. An Amish straw hat with ribbons is atop his head. On his feet, sensible brown shoes with crepe soles. You'd notice this guy anywhere. He's smoking the most enormous pipe, a bent brandy Ascorti. Well, at least he has some taste, you think.

He strikes up a conversation. Nice guy, you think. Maybe a bit odd, but we're all bozos on this bus. You play along as he tells you about himself, obviously glad at the company. You notice he never makes eye contact, though.

You have lunch together, both glad of a little congenial company. He orders a roast beef sandwich. When it comes, you learn the bulge in his right trouser pocket is not actually, as you had thought, a tobacco pouch but rather a small, Tupperware container with two compartments, one filled with pickled beets, one with Bleu cheese. He carries on the conversation cheerfully, not noticing your slight discomfiture as he carefully arranges the beets and Bleu cheese into a smiley face pattern on his sandwich.

"I see you found Walt," says Betty, your waitress. "He loves his roast beef, pickled beet, and Bleu cheese sanwiches. More coffee, hun?"

When lunch ends, Walt tells you to come over and blow the time by looking at his pipe collection. He offers you some Tudor Castle. Since you're out of tobacco, sans transportation and utterly forlorn, you accept gladly.

You drive to a pleasant little development, if such a thing could truly be said, betokening better times. You hear the happy sounds of playing children next door and are startled by Walt's response. "Kids. Always kids. Laughing and making noise. I often think the world would be better if people just decided to stop breeding and force the Second Coming, don't you." Startled and discomfited, you ask to go back to J B Auto Repair, but Walt won't hear of it. Just now you notice the scorched earth and scattered, burnt trees on his neighbors property. Better not ask, you think.

He shows you his trumpet vine and new air conditioning unit and invites you into his "Arizona Room," really just a screened off enclosure. You can't help noticing the three pound can of Costco coffee, filled with the dottles of god-knows-how-many-pipes. Walt brings out pipes. You can't help but notice every dammed one of them looks the same--large, bent brandy-shaped pipes you could stick your thumb into, with brown, over buffed sandblast finishes. Whoo boy, you think. Just then you notice a cat looking pleadingly at you, attached to the water tank by a dog harness. Overwhelming dread washes over you. You realize god doesn't hate Fainn. He has it in for you.

Everywhere you look, signs of oddity. Stems soaking. Sun bleached stummels like so many dead soldiers scattered in the sun. That damned coffee can.

You pull out your cellphone. It's dying. You're about to be utterly trapped. Knowing what you know about the Arizona police, you know you'll never be found if something goes wrong.

Suddenly the phone rings. 'Sir, this is B over at J B Auto Repair down on N. 2nd Ave," he says. You can't help being a little surprised. His name is actually B. He pronounced it "N. Two-end."

"We found the problem. Turns out your gladiculator went. We ordered a replacement, but it'll take two weeks to get here. This town is a geographic anomaly."

Screw it, you think. I'll make a phone call. Relaxing a little under the influence of the Tudor Castle, you explain the situation to Walt, who cheerfully tells you to come in and use the phone.

"It's a little early, but I'll pour some Kirkland Brand Blended Scotch for both of us. Phone's over by my new Costco work station. I set it up in a u pattern, which wasn't shown in the advertising photos, but I prefer it that way."

He ushers you into a pleasant room with a nice, modern work station. Big computer in the middle. Comfortable chair, you think sitting down. Just then you notice the lamp. The lamp shade is missing its fabric. Just the two wire rings. Huh, you think. Why the?

It's the last thing you ever see as the world fades to black.

-----------------------------

Sorry, Walt. I know you like it. But Ajo looks like Hell to me. I need my Beef Sichuan Home Style with Chili and Salt pickle.
You typed this up on the toilet, didn't you? Freak.

TNLawPiper
BrotherOfTheBriar YouHeartlessBastards
BrotherOfTheBriar YouHeartlessBastards
Posts: 16908
Joined: Sun Sep 14, 2008 6:00 pm

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by TNLawPiper » Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:16 pm

It would be filled with only pipe smokers. No pipes or tobacco or anything enjoyable. Just old men and hipsters ogling Andie McDowell.

User avatar
hugodrax
All Around Nice Guy
All Around Nice Guy
Posts: 14345
Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2013 6:00 pm
Location: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by hugodrax » Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:17 pm

TNLawPiper wrote:
Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:15 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 8:35 am
JudgeRusty wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 7:06 am
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm
Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
and?

What are you saving it for?
Do you expect to save 3 lbs of dottle?
Are you going to smoke it?
Are you going to spread it around your tomato plants next spring?
Also, how much coffee does this guy drink? Who even has cupboard space for a three pound can of coffee? Let alone six pounds, because Costco sells them in two packs?

I can tell you where Pipe Smoker's Hell is. Without shadow of a doubt, it's Ajo, Arizona.

Think about it. After a series of inexplicably bad decisions, an offended God leads you to end up with a broken down car in Ajo, Arizona. You get a tow to J B Auto Repair over at 1440 N 2nd Ave. I encourage you to look at Google Street View at this point. You effed up if you are here.

You can't help noticing the for sale sign over on the Bamboo Village. God forsaken town doesn't have a Chinese restaurant. It has been your experience that the Chinese are the coal miner's canary of small town economic indicators. Town doesn't have any Chinese restaurants, you're looking at a dead town.

Filled with an uneasy dread, but stuck for at least four hours while J or B fixes your car, you cast about for someplace to get a bite to eat. Asking about restaurants, you get sent to Marcela's Cafe and Bakery down on West Dorset Street.

This is the typical diner/greasy spoon common to all small towns in America. Plain food. Bad coffee. A waitress that calls you honey and offers you a slice of pie. Every town you've ever been to had one. Except Lubbock, Tx. This is the only town you might dislike more than Lubbock, Tx, at first sight.

You order the meatloaf because you're in an existential malaise, a feeling of hopelessness washing over your body. Wandering out for a smoke, you fill your pipe with the last shreds of Borkum Riff you bought at that gas station where your car refused to start because, well, to hell with it, your day couldn't get any worse.

That's what you thought. Right as you strike a match, you notice an excited man walking up to you out of the corner of your eye. To be fair, you'd notice this guy anywhere. He's wearing a Smoking Pipes T-Shirt tucked into his dungarees. Rainbow suspenders and a tooled leather belt with a bronze buckle advertising Dad's Root Beer. An Amish straw hat with ribbons is atop his head. On his feet, sensible brown shoes with crepe soles. You'd notice this guy anywhere. He's smoking the most enormous pipe, a bent brandy Ascorti. Well, at least he has some taste, you think.

He strikes up a conversation. Nice guy, you think. Maybe a bit odd, but we're all bozos on this bus. You play along as he tells you about himself, obviously glad at the company. You notice he never makes eye contact, though.

You have lunch together, both glad of a little congenial company. He orders a roast beef sandwich. When it comes, you learn the bulge in his right trouser pocket is not actually, as you had thought, a tobacco pouch but rather a small, Tupperware container with two compartments, one filled with pickled beets, one with Bleu cheese. He carries on the conversation cheerfully, not noticing your slight discomfiture as he carefully arranges the beets and Bleu cheese into a smiley face pattern on his sandwich.

"I see you found Walt," says Betty, your waitress. "He loves his roast beef, pickled beet, and Bleu cheese sanwiches. More coffee, hun?"

When lunch ends, Walt tells you to come over and blow the time by looking at his pipe collection. He offers you some Tudor Castle. Since you're out of tobacco, sans transportation and utterly forlorn, you accept gladly.

You drive to a pleasant little development, if such a thing could truly be said, betokening better times. You hear the happy sounds of playing children next door and are startled by Walt's response. "Kids. Always kids. Laughing and making noise. I often think the world would be better if people just decided to stop breeding and force the Second Coming, don't you." Startled and discomfited, you ask to go back to J B Auto Repair, but Walt won't hear of it. Just now you notice the scorched earth and scattered, burnt trees on his neighbors property. Better not ask, you think.

He shows you his trumpet vine and new air conditioning unit and invites you into his "Arizona Room," really just a screened off enclosure. You can't help noticing the three pound can of Costco coffee, filled with the dottles of god-knows-how-many-pipes. Walt brings out pipes. You can't help but notice every dammed one of them looks the same--large, bent brandy-shaped pipes you could stick your thumb into, with brown, over buffed sandblast finishes. Whoo boy, you think. Just then you notice a cat looking pleadingly at you, attached to the water tank by a dog harness. Overwhelming dread washes over you. You realize god doesn't hate Fainn. He has it in for you.

Everywhere you look, signs of oddity. Stems soaking. Sun bleached stummels like so many dead soldiers scattered in the sun. That damned coffee can.

You pull out your cellphone. It's dying. You're about to be utterly trapped. Knowing what you know about the Arizona police, you know you'll never be found if something goes wrong.

Suddenly the phone rings. 'Sir, this is B over at J B Auto Repair down on N. 2nd Ave," he says. You can't help being a little surprised. His name is actually B. He pronounced it "N. Two-end."

"We found the problem. Turns out your gladiculator went. We ordered a replacement, but it'll take two weeks to get here. This town is a geographic anomaly."

Screw it, you think. I'll make a phone call. Relaxing a little under the influence of the Tudor Castle, you explain the situation to Walt, who cheerfully tells you to come in and use the phone.

"It's a little early, but I'll pour some Kirkland Brand Blended Scotch for both of us. Phone's over by my new Costco work station. I set it up in a u pattern, which wasn't shown in the advertising photos, but I prefer it that way."

He ushers you into a pleasant room with a nice, modern work station. Big computer in the middle. Comfortable chair, you think sitting down. Just then you notice the lamp. The lamp shade is missing its fabric. Just the two wire rings. Huh, you think. Why the?

It's the last thing you ever see as the world fades to black.

-----------------------------

Sorry, Walt. I know you like it. But Ajo looks like Hell to me. I need my Beef Sichuan Home Style with Chili and Salt pickle.
You typed this up on the toilet, didn't you? Freak.
No, it never takes me that long. You thought about me on the toilet, though, didn't you? Unspeakable pervert.
Etiam mihi opinio anserem perirent.

TNLawPiper
BrotherOfTheBriar YouHeartlessBastards
BrotherOfTheBriar YouHeartlessBastards
Posts: 16908
Joined: Sun Sep 14, 2008 6:00 pm

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by TNLawPiper » Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:19 pm

hugodrax wrote:
Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:17 pm
TNLawPiper wrote:
Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:15 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 8:35 am
JudgeRusty wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 7:06 am
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm
Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am
coco wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:22 am
cobs
You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
and?

What are you saving it for?
Do you expect to save 3 lbs of dottle?
Are you going to smoke it?
Are you going to spread it around your tomato plants next spring?
Also, how much coffee does this guy drink? Who even has cupboard space for a three pound can of coffee? Let alone six pounds, because Costco sells them in two packs?

I can tell you where Pipe Smoker's Hell is. Without shadow of a doubt, it's Ajo, Arizona.

Think about it. After a series of inexplicably bad decisions, an offended God leads you to end up with a broken down car in Ajo, Arizona. You get a tow to J B Auto Repair over at 1440 N 2nd Ave. I encourage you to look at Google Street View at this point. You effed up if you are here.

You can't help noticing the for sale sign over on the Bamboo Village. God forsaken town doesn't have a Chinese restaurant. It has been your experience that the Chinese are the coal miner's canary of small town economic indicators. Town doesn't have any Chinese restaurants, you're looking at a dead town.

Filled with an uneasy dread, but stuck for at least four hours while J or B fixes your car, you cast about for someplace to get a bite to eat. Asking about restaurants, you get sent to Marcela's Cafe and Bakery down on West Dorset Street.

This is the typical diner/greasy spoon common to all small towns in America. Plain food. Bad coffee. A waitress that calls you honey and offers you a slice of pie. Every town you've ever been to had one. Except Lubbock, Tx. This is the only town you might dislike more than Lubbock, Tx, at first sight.

You order the meatloaf because you're in an existential malaise, a feeling of hopelessness washing over your body. Wandering out for a smoke, you fill your pipe with the last shreds of Borkum Riff you bought at that gas station where your car refused to start because, well, to hell with it, your day couldn't get any worse.

That's what you thought. Right as you strike a match, you notice an excited man walking up to you out of the corner of your eye. To be fair, you'd notice this guy anywhere. He's wearing a Smoking Pipes T-Shirt tucked into his dungarees. Rainbow suspenders and a tooled leather belt with a bronze buckle advertising Dad's Root Beer. An Amish straw hat with ribbons is atop his head. On his feet, sensible brown shoes with crepe soles. You'd notice this guy anywhere. He's smoking the most enormous pipe, a bent brandy Ascorti. Well, at least he has some taste, you think.

He strikes up a conversation. Nice guy, you think. Maybe a bit odd, but we're all bozos on this bus. You play along as he tells you about himself, obviously glad at the company. You notice he never makes eye contact, though.

You have lunch together, both glad of a little congenial company. He orders a roast beef sandwich. When it comes, you learn the bulge in his right trouser pocket is not actually, as you had thought, a tobacco pouch but rather a small, Tupperware container with two compartments, one filled with pickled beets, one with Bleu cheese. He carries on the conversation cheerfully, not noticing your slight discomfiture as he carefully arranges the beets and Bleu cheese into a smiley face pattern on his sandwich.

"I see you found Walt," says Betty, your waitress. "He loves his roast beef, pickled beet, and Bleu cheese sanwiches. More coffee, hun?"

When lunch ends, Walt tells you to come over and blow the time by looking at his pipe collection. He offers you some Tudor Castle. Since you're out of tobacco, sans transportation and utterly forlorn, you accept gladly.

You drive to a pleasant little development, if such a thing could truly be said, betokening better times. You hear the happy sounds of playing children next door and are startled by Walt's response. "Kids. Always kids. Laughing and making noise. I often think the world would be better if people just decided to stop breeding and force the Second Coming, don't you." Startled and discomfited, you ask to go back to J B Auto Repair, but Walt won't hear of it. Just now you notice the scorched earth and scattered, burnt trees on his neighbors property. Better not ask, you think.

He shows you his trumpet vine and new air conditioning unit and invites you into his "Arizona Room," really just a screened off enclosure. You can't help noticing the three pound can of Costco coffee, filled with the dottles of god-knows-how-many-pipes. Walt brings out pipes. You can't help but notice every dammed one of them looks the same--large, bent brandy-shaped pipes you could stick your thumb into, with brown, over buffed sandblast finishes. Whoo boy, you think. Just then you notice a cat looking pleadingly at you, attached to the water tank by a dog harness. Overwhelming dread washes over you. You realize god doesn't hate Fainn. He has it in for you.

Everywhere you look, signs of oddity. Stems soaking. Sun bleached stummels like so many dead soldiers scattered in the sun. That damned coffee can.

You pull out your cellphone. It's dying. You're about to be utterly trapped. Knowing what you know about the Arizona police, you know you'll never be found if something goes wrong.

Suddenly the phone rings. 'Sir, this is B over at J B Auto Repair down on N. 2nd Ave," he says. You can't help being a little surprised. His name is actually B. He pronounced it "N. Two-end."

"We found the problem. Turns out your gladiculator went. We ordered a replacement, but it'll take two weeks to get here. This town is a geographic anomaly."

Screw it, you think. I'll make a phone call. Relaxing a little under the influence of the Tudor Castle, you explain the situation to Walt, who cheerfully tells you to come in and use the phone.

"It's a little early, but I'll pour some Kirkland Brand Blended Scotch for both of us. Phone's over by my new Costco work station. I set it up in a u pattern, which wasn't shown in the advertising photos, but I prefer it that way."

He ushers you into a pleasant room with a nice, modern work station. Big computer in the middle. Comfortable chair, you think sitting down. Just then you notice the lamp. The lamp shade is missing its fabric. Just the two wire rings. Huh, you think. Why the?

It's the last thing you ever see as the world fades to black.

-----------------------------

Sorry, Walt. I know you like it. But Ajo looks like Hell to me. I need my Beef Sichuan Home Style with Chili and Salt pickle.
You typed this up on the toilet, didn't you? Freak.
No, it never takes me that long. You thought about me on the toilet, though, didn't you? Unspeakable pervert.
I am capable of recognizing that you use a toilet without imagining what you look like doing so, you dullard.

User avatar
hugodrax
All Around Nice Guy
All Around Nice Guy
Posts: 14345
Joined: Fri Jan 25, 2013 6:00 pm
Location: Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania
Contact:

Re: A Pipesmoker's Hell

Post by hugodrax » Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:35 pm

TNLawPiper wrote:
Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:19 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:17 pm
TNLawPiper wrote:
Mon Oct 02, 2017 1:15 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 8:35 am
JudgeRusty wrote:
Sun Oct 01, 2017 7:06 am
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 9:51 pm
Rusty wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 5:01 pm
Goose55 wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 2:44 pm
hugodrax wrote:
Sat Sep 30, 2017 11:35 am


You mailed that in.

Is there a pipe hell? If so, I say it's being incredibly loved and treasured by your owner after a lifetime of abuse, restored from the brink of destruction to look and feel good as new. Imagine the feeling. Filled with Tudor Castle. Gently and lovingly smoked without rush. Giving your owner complete satisfaction in return.

Then it's over and half of it gets soaked in dawn, its nether regions vigorously shank-brushed, and its neatly bisected corpse left to dry in the hot, hot sun. Only to do it again the next day in a Groundhog Day living nightmare seemingly without end. Love and punishment. Longing to have its stem fully inserted, but an eternity of just the tip.

Or maybe they like it. I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't anthropomorphize our pipes. :lol:
Actually, most pipes I smoke these days are sitting by the dottle bucket, where I left them, waiting to be cleaned. I only once in a while set the stummels out in the sun, if they begin to smell foul.
LOL! It looks like you're giving in and surrendering to the community standard. Resist. Tell them you hang the pipe carcasses on the clothes line and they knock in the wind.

What is this dottle bucket? Do you not smoke the whole bowl?
Yeah, I do mostly always smoke the entire bowl. But in instances where I do not, there is the dottle bucket. An empty 3 pound Costco Kirkland Signature coffee can.
and?

What are you saving it for?
Do you expect to save 3 lbs of dottle?
Are you going to smoke it?
Are you going to spread it around your tomato plants next spring?
Also, how much coffee does this guy drink? Who even has cupboard space for a three pound can of coffee? Let alone six pounds, because Costco sells them in two packs?

I can tell you where Pipe Smoker's Hell is. Without shadow of a doubt, it's Ajo, Arizona.

Think about it. After a series of inexplicably bad decisions, an offended God leads you to end up with a broken down car in Ajo, Arizona. You get a tow to J B Auto Repair over at 1440 N 2nd Ave. I encourage you to look at Google Street View at this point. You effed up if you are here.

You can't help noticing the for sale sign over on the Bamboo Village. God forsaken town doesn't have a Chinese restaurant. It has been your experience that the Chinese are the coal miner's canary of small town economic indicators. Town doesn't have any Chinese restaurants, you're looking at a dead town.

Filled with an uneasy dread, but stuck for at least four hours while J or B fixes your car, you cast about for someplace to get a bite to eat. Asking about restaurants, you get sent to Marcela's Cafe and Bakery down on West Dorset Street.

This is the typical diner/greasy spoon common to all small towns in America. Plain food. Bad coffee. A waitress that calls you honey and offers you a slice of pie. Every town you've ever been to had one. Except Lubbock, Tx. This is the only town you might dislike more than Lubbock, Tx, at first sight.

You order the meatloaf because you're in an existential malaise, a feeling of hopelessness washing over your body. Wandering out for a smoke, you fill your pipe with the last shreds of Borkum Riff you bought at that gas station where your car refused to start because, well, to hell with it, your day couldn't get any worse.

That's what you thought. Right as you strike a match, you notice an excited man walking up to you out of the corner of your eye. To be fair, you'd notice this guy anywhere. He's wearing a Smoking Pipes T-Shirt tucked into his dungarees. Rainbow suspenders and a tooled leather belt with a bronze buckle advertising Dad's Root Beer. An Amish straw hat with ribbons is atop his head. On his feet, sensible brown shoes with crepe soles. You'd notice this guy anywhere. He's smoking the most enormous pipe, a bent brandy Ascorti. Well, at least he has some taste, you think.

He strikes up a conversation. Nice guy, you think. Maybe a bit odd, but we're all bozos on this bus. You play along as he tells you about himself, obviously glad at the company. You notice he never makes eye contact, though.

You have lunch together, both glad of a little congenial company. He orders a roast beef sandwich. When it comes, you learn the bulge in his right trouser pocket is not actually, as you had thought, a tobacco pouch but rather a small, Tupperware container with two compartments, one filled with pickled beets, one with Bleu cheese. He carries on the conversation cheerfully, not noticing your slight discomfiture as he carefully arranges the beets and Bleu cheese into a smiley face pattern on his sandwich.

"I see you found Walt," says Betty, your waitress. "He loves his roast beef, pickled beet, and Bleu cheese sanwiches. More coffee, hun?"

When lunch ends, Walt tells you to come over and blow the time by looking at his pipe collection. He offers you some Tudor Castle. Since you're out of tobacco, sans transportation and utterly forlorn, you accept gladly.

You drive to a pleasant little development, if such a thing could truly be said, betokening better times. You hear the happy sounds of playing children next door and are startled by Walt's response. "Kids. Always kids. Laughing and making noise. I often think the world would be better if people just decided to stop breeding and force the Second Coming, don't you." Startled and discomfited, you ask to go back to J B Auto Repair, but Walt won't hear of it. Just now you notice the scorched earth and scattered, burnt trees on his neighbors property. Better not ask, you think.

He shows you his trumpet vine and new air conditioning unit and invites you into his "Arizona Room," really just a screened off enclosure. You can't help noticing the three pound can of Costco coffee, filled with the dottles of god-knows-how-many-pipes. Walt brings out pipes. You can't help but notice every dammed one of them looks the same--large, bent brandy-shaped pipes you could stick your thumb into, with brown, over buffed sandblast finishes. Whoo boy, you think. Just then you notice a cat looking pleadingly at you, attached to the water tank by a dog harness. Overwhelming dread washes over you. You realize god doesn't hate Fainn. He has it in for you.

Everywhere you look, signs of oddity. Stems soaking. Sun bleached stummels like so many dead soldiers scattered in the sun. That damned coffee can.

You pull out your cellphone. It's dying. You're about to be utterly trapped. Knowing what you know about the Arizona police, you know you'll never be found if something goes wrong.

Suddenly the phone rings. 'Sir, this is B over at J B Auto Repair down on N. 2nd Ave," he says. You can't help being a little surprised. His name is actually B. He pronounced it "N. Two-end."

"We found the problem. Turns out your gladiculator went. We ordered a replacement, but it'll take two weeks to get here. This town is a geographic anomaly."

Screw it, you think. I'll make a phone call. Relaxing a little under the influence of the Tudor Castle, you explain the situation to Walt, who cheerfully tells you to come in and use the phone.

"It's a little early, but I'll pour some Kirkland Brand Blended Scotch for both of us. Phone's over by my new Costco work station. I set it up in a u pattern, which wasn't shown in the advertising photos, but I prefer it that way."

He ushers you into a pleasant room with a nice, modern work station. Big computer in the middle. Comfortable chair, you think sitting down. Just then you notice the lamp. The lamp shade is missing its fabric. Just the two wire rings. Huh, you think. Why the?

It's the last thing you ever see as the world fades to black.

-----------------------------

Sorry, Walt. I know you like it. But Ajo looks like Hell to me. I need my Beef Sichuan Home Style with Chili and Salt pickle.
You typed this up on the toilet, didn't you? Freak.
No, it never takes me that long. You thought about me on the toilet, though, didn't you? Unspeakable pervert.
I am capable of recognizing that you use a toilet without imagining what you look like doing so, you dullard.
Promise me you'll never leave Tennessee. Your unique talents would be wasted elsewhere.
Etiam mihi opinio anserem perirent.

Post Reply