Or don’t. Today marks 10 months of “don’t” for me. Suffices to say I think I’m over it.
Used to LOVE the Marlboro Reds. They made me feel like a skinny, bow-legged, motherfucking cowboy with glasses. I never felt any kind of hurt when riding as a result of being a tuff guy smoking guy. In fact, I found no better place to keep a cigarette straight, unbroken, and drier than inside a handlebar. Perfect way to pass the time waiting out the rest of Big Kitchen’s effort up a hill. While Thunderham of the Lowlands was busy installing switchbacks accross the breadth of a fire road, marking his progress with an offering of pre-digested sausage patties, I would enjoy me a Cowboy Snack and take in the view.
I thought maybe if I smoked enough of the damned things, I’d be able to save up enough miles for the Marlboro ‘Cross bike:
Like fat kids by a cereal box prize I was fooled, grubby hands and all. You gotta mail the miles in. Postage on 174 pounds worth of cigarette UPC’s could get you a Surly Cross Check, but the bar-end shifters would relegate my cigs to the lonesome, vulnerable seat pack once more.
I was over it anyhow–at least until i saw this bundle of guiltless cautionary sex-appeal:
Maybe if I smoke enough of those little beauties, they’ll give me one of these:
Fuck it. I’m just gonna buy a football and some Marlboros. Happy 10 months.by