6 X 54, Honduran
Attention salesmen, you want to get me to buy something? Just insult me. This strategy worked swimmingly when Batch and I visited a cigar shop in Virginia for some purchases a few weekends ago. I would tell you the name and location of this shop, but I don’t want any readers to make any special field trips to check out the monumental geeks that run this joint just like junior high classes go to nearby Colonial Williamsburg to gawk at queers dressed like cobblers.
The shop’s owner was some tall and pencil-thin Bill Nye-looking dweeb wearing a Tabasco brand Hawaiian shirt tucked into his Haggar wrinkle-free, stain-resistant slacks which barely made it within three inches of his scuffed New Balances. As we schmoozed with him he cockily referred to himself as “aggressively single,” meaning that he eschews monogamy in order to live a “playa” lifestyle befitting a man of his ways and means. But something tells me that 45-year-old losers that smell like crusty old stogies don’t exactly get a lot of pussy. Especially ones that brag about hitting on “honeys” at the Knights of Columbus swimming pool and snack bar (membership’s only $152 a year!)
The head salesman might have been worse. A 5’4″, 22-year-old that still looked so prepubescent that he probably IDs himself any time he takes a cigar off the shelf. If these two nerds had somehow been cloned one-hundred times ala the hokily terrible Jet Li movie “The One,” Batch and I still could have kicked all their arses with impunity.
But there would be no pugilism that day, only verbal sparring. The salesman led us into the humidor, smugly standing in the corner and observing us as we misguidedly looked through the cigars.
“So what do you guys like to smoke?”
I responded, “We’re no experts, but I think we both have enjoyed most of the Olivas we’ve had recently.”
“Oh, so you like lighter and milder stuff?”
He said that line as if he thought me a bigger pussy than the one belonging to a 60-year-old Catholic woman with seven children and a speculum spread open in her while she sits in the OB/GYN’s stirrups. Then, the salesman began offering us some cigars to try. Now I’m no cigar aficionado but I don’t think there’s a brand called Big Brown Lollipop. We were being fucked with. The salesman was offering us shitty cigar choices to mock us. I wouldn’t stand for that.
“What’s that you’re smoking, pal?”
I had noticed him tugging on something quite fragrant.
He guffawed, responding in near hysterics and short of breath…
“Huh…huh…there is no way you could handle this. It’s the Camacho Triple Maduro. The world’s only triple maduro ever made. You’d probably immediately throw up and then pass out if you even took one puff from this bad boy.”
I had just been called out by some virgin. And no way was I gonna stand for it. Did he not know I was a world-famous vice consumer?! I plucked a $14 cigar from the box and marched it to the register.
“Better fill your belly with cheeseburgers before smoking that one…!” the salesman called out to me as I slammed the humidor behind me.
I carried the potent smoke around all July 4th weekend, never locating the perfect time (or actually smoke-friendly haven) to light up. Finally, at around 2 AM on Saturday night, finding myself atop a chichi and boring hotel rooftop bar, I asserted myself and sparked up. The New York City wannabees set down their $11 Amstels and stared at me with the same disdain as they’d stare at a ghetto teen opting to keep her baby as opposed to having an abortion*.
My brief thoughts on the cigar…
Dark, extremely peppery, tastes of rich chocolate. The draw was nice and the cherry was huge, remaining on for over an inch. Overall though, I found it decent but surprisingly bland.
Let’s be clear, this is a novelty cigar. Not like a foot-long, Coke-can-thick and pink “IT’S A GIRL!” cigar, but a novelty nonetheless. Of course, it is indeed potent. I hadn’t eaten several cheeseburgers that day but I had had a large steak and numerous beers. Nevertheless, by the time I was done I felt like Ivan Drago had been wailing on my stomach all night long. I hurried home to lay down, clutching a pillow to my midsection as if it was a teddy bear, calling out “Mommy!!!” well until daybreak.
Three days and several showers later, the cigar had somehow permeated my person so much that I still tasted it in my mouth and smelled it in my hair and skin. And, I can’t say I enjoyed that.
I guess that nerd was right, the Camacho Triple Maduro did kick my ass. Still worth a try however.
*That was not a pro-life line. Believe me, I’m all for anything that thins the populus: abortion, the death penalty, suicide, war, and my potent triple maduro exhales giving the entire roof deck emphysema in the same way Love Canal turned all the kids in Niagara Falls retarded.