What's a polite way to say BIG FAT LIAR?

Oh, I know.

Obama's remarks upon signing the tobacco legislation yesterday are inconsistent with reality.

This legislation will not ban all tobacco products, and it will allow adults to make their own choices.

Well, no. Clearly it won't.

The new law bans candy and fruit flavors in tobacco products[.]

So as an adult, I will be prevented from buying an orange-flavored cigarette (similar to those Camel used to make) or a chocolate-flavored one. How does that allow adults to make their own choices?

Prohibition is alive and well, folks. I just didn't know they'd get around to banning FLAVORS so soon.

The War on Pleasure marches on.

Idea for response to the 21st-century Prohibition.

If it pisses you off that the government hassle has made or WILL make you quit smoking, here's an idea:

Write down how much money you WOULD have spent on cigarettes each day. Come election time, use that amount to punish one of the freedom-haters in Congress.

If your Representative or Senator voted for the latest restrictions, for example, donate half of that money to a primary challenger against him or her, and half to a general election challenger.

If your guy voted AGAINST this monstrosity, donate half to him or her, and pick out one of the Prohibitionists that voted YES and spend the other half trying to get them defeated.

The YES/NOs can be found here and here.

Update.

Well, the next day I smoked that cigarette.

I knew I would fail if I tried to quit without some artificial starting point, so since it was only a couple of days until my birthday, I decided to keep smoking until bedtime the night before then, and start all over.

That was three days ago, and so far so good.

Some of my triggers are wierd. I've already discussed boredom and pissed-offedness and the fact that my hands and mouth seem to have their own residual memory of smoking, and they don't want to quit yet. I have others that are stranger.

One is other people talking about my quitting smoking. It doesn't particularly matter what they're saying about it; whether they're congratulating me or telling me I'll never succeed at it, the very fact that they are talking about it at all triggers the "I HAVE to have a cigarette now" subroutine in my brain.

I think it's rooted somewhere in the notion that the decision to quit smoking is a private one (he notes as he tells the entire blogosphere about it), and other people shouldn't be talking about it. So maybe I'm punishing them (I have no idea why punishing others and smoking cigarettes are interwoven in my brain) or at least NOT rewarding them for talking about it.

Another trigger is realizing that in the past X amount of time it hasn't been that difficult not smoking. I'll be going along just fine and the thought "You know, this not smoking thing has been pretty easy this time" will pop into my head, and then WHAM! I will either want a cigarette right then or will want one the very next time things don't go the way they ought to go.

I guess the lesson that one teaches is that, for the rest of my life, I can never let my guard down. And no matter what, I am not capable of having Just One.

It's 8:20 now. Sadly enough, tonight that means it's Time-A-Go-Seepy.

[1-26-09 Update: Another trigger is being unable to go anywhere, which will be the case starting in a few hours and lasting several days with the oncoming Ice Storm.]

Relapse.

I smoked 19 cigarettes today. Not that it's any excuse, but the world pissed me off.

More specifically, the fact that the world is falling apart and nobody seems to want to do anything about it pissed me off.

Today was the first day in the past several that the mercury rose above freezing. During that time, a bunch of laundry piled up, so I decided to wash a couple of loads.

But no.

Halfway through the first load, the machine quit. It didn't even release the water first. It is about eight and a half years old, we've already had to fix the damn thing three times, and there are plenty of mid-century wringer washers out there still plugging along just fine. If it was possible to manufacture a washing machine fifty years ago that would last decades, why is it not possible now? Why is everything made these days total crap?

So I loaded up my soggy clothes, dripping all through the house, and took them to the laundromat, where I would have to pay $1.25 a load to wash them. I had a five in my pocket.

And the change machine at the laundromat had a sign on it that it takes fives and ones. I put the bill in the slot. It spit the bill out. I tried again. It rejected it again. I smoothed out the VERY minor creases and tried again. It again spit it back at me.

Hateful machine.

I tried a total of ten times. It was rejected a total of ten times. I wanted to punch the piece of $H!T machine. If I'd known for certain that the two security cameras in the place were dummies, I might have done just that.

Some idiot child asked if I wanted his help getting the machine to work.

I don't know what he thought HE could do about it. It was the machine itself, not my technique, that was flawed and causing the rejection of the money. The kid was maybe ten years old, and I surmised he was probably going to grab my money and run.

"No," I told him. Not "No thanks," mind you, just "No."

Instead, I went to the salvage grocery store that's in the same strip mall. I stood in line at the cash register behind some halfwit girl who seemed to be deliberately unloading her cart as slowly as she could. And no, I'm not exaggerating.

That's another thing -- when did it become perfectly acceptable to deliberately waste other people's time?

I finally got to the cashier and got three bucks in quarters and two one.

I got my laundry done, but I was still fuming. That's when my thought process went something like this:

Why do the right thing if the world's gonna screw you over anyway? I'll show the world -- I'll smoke CIGARETTES!!! I'll somehow PUNISH the world by resuming my nasty habit of sucking tobacco smoke down into my lungs! THAT'll teach it a lesson!

I know it makes absolutely no sense, other than the first part. But in that moment, it made perfect sense. The whole world's been shot to $h!t and there's not a damn thing being done about it, so I may as well enjoy myself with a smoke.

Besides, I needed something to take the edge off and calm me down before I came all Angry Unglued on the next dumbass I encountered, like one of the MANY morons in this town who are INCAPABLE of grasping the concept of Left Turn Yield On Green. Trust me on this, you wouldn't like me when I'm Angry Unglued.

Even then, the consequences would have been minimal if I could have bought just one or two cigarettes. But you can't buy just one or two; they aren't sold that way. You have to buy a minimum of twenty.

I stopped at the 24/7 and bought a pack of Camel Menthol Wides and a lighter.

I sat in my car, trying to resist the temptation to open the pack. The size of the box, the texture and temperature of the cellophane wrapper, the faint smell of mint all proved too much for me.

"Fuck you," I told the camel on the box. "Fuck Whirlpool, and Fuck Barack Obama!" I ripped open the cellophane, flipped open the box, tore out the silver inner liner at the top of the pack, and pulled a cigarette out.

I lifted it to the corner of my mouth and grabbed the filter with my teeth. The menthol danced and tingled on my lips. I flicked my Bic, paused long enough to think "Christ I hate me right now," and stuck the flame to the end of the cigarette.

The first puff was long and deep, with a secondary inhalation to let the smoke kiss my sinuses from the inside. The kiss radiated outward, not stopping until it reached the ends of my extremities.

Yeah, THERE it is, I thought. Why hello there, old fried. I hadn't realized how much I missed you until I got you back.

Another puff and the edge began to be carried away on the wisps of smoke, drifting out the window and into the universe.

I flipped on the car's radio, certain that Joan Jett's I Hate Myself For Loving You would be playing. It wasn't. I tested all the presets and settled on something or other.

I finished that cigarette and drove home. I didn't even bat an eye at the water main break at 6th & Chestnut that had the whole town under a boil order and left a giant crater surrounded by traffic cones in the middle of the intersection.

I got home, dipped the water out of the washing machine a cup at a time and poured it into the bathroom sink. And then I hung my clothes on the line.

That was 18 cigarettes ago. I have one left. Will I smoke it tonight? Will I smoke it the first thing tomorrow morning and want more? Will I stash it on top of the kitchen cupboards so that the NEXT time the world pisses me off, I can have just that ONE cigarette?

Time will tell.

What good is a Fag Hole if you don't have a bunch of fags in it?

(Quick catchup for those of you late to the party -- I quit smoking 1/1/09.)

On the armrest of my titty-pink Escort is a little rectangular depression. I think it may be there to keep change for tolls in, but it's just the right size and shape for a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

So, of COURSE I named it the Fag Hole. It has been the Fag Hole for eight years now. So my decision to quit smoking presented me with a dilemma -- what do I call the Fag Hole when it no longer functions as a Fag Hole?

Today, I'm eating yet another salad at the Country Cottage. With the salad comes twelve crackers, two to a package. But there's a problem. Crackers don't go with salad; crackers go with soup. I think it's in the Bible. You can look it up.

I still had four packages of crackers sitting on my dashboard from the LAST salad I ate there.

And OBVIOUSLY I couldn't just let the waitress throw the crackers away unused.

So I took them with me when we left.

When I got to the car, I tossed the crackers on the dashboard. They went everywhere. And I mean EVERYWHERE. I'm pretty sure that if you looked in, say, the sands of Zanzibar or in Paula Poundstone's buttcrack, you'd find some of my crackers there. I gathered them all back up.

That was when I discovered that if I stood the crackers on their side and put them in crossways instead of lengthwise, there was just enough room for all ten packages in the Fag Hole.

And that, boys and girls, is the story of how the Fag Hole became the Cracker Hole.

Sleep as distraction.

It is 7:30 PM on a Saturday night, and where am I? In freakin' bed.

Why am I in bed? Because the longer I am up, the more tempted I am to make a little trip to the convenience store for some cigarettes. Even if I have the willpower to resist doing that, the damn fridge is calling me.

"Come," it tells me. "Partake of my lunchmeat. Indulge. Wouldn't one of my Ding-Dongs taste really good on your tastebuds right about now. Explore the many pleasures of my Red Velvet Bingle!"

Bastard siren machine.

The sad thing is, I know I'm not really hungry. I am bored and I don't know what to do with my hands and my mouth. It feels like they should be doing SOMEthing, but if not smoking a fag, then what? Answer: stuffing myself with food.

So I find myself in bed, away from the car keys and away from the fridge. This is Day 3. I am miserable.

Remind me, why am I doing this?

Thwack thwack thwack.

I went out to eat at the Country Cottage today. Out of habit, we sat in the smoking section. I hadn't had any cravings for a cigarette all morning, unless you count the first thing this morning when I had a "What is it I'm supposed to be doing right now?" moment, and the moment when I was gathering up my things to go out for lunch.

Cue flashback.

Keys? Check.

Cellphone? Check.

That seems to be everything, but my coat pocket is noticably empty. I must be forgetting something, but what?

Even seeing other people enjoying a post-meal smoke didn't bother me. The suck, the moment's pause (sometimes with eyes actually closed) as the nicotine rockets to the brain, the exhale of the afterglow-colored smoke. None of that bothered me.

The waitress brought my salad and refilled my tea. I began attacking the food with gusto. It was really good.

And then I heard it. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. The pounding of a new pack of cigarettes against the palm of the hand, to compress the tobacco for a smoother smoke.

I didn't do the packslap myself, but I had been around it enough when I was enjoying a smoke that a couple of synapses fired up and now all I could think of was how badly I wanted a Marlboro Green.

I tried to turn back to my salad to keep my mind off smoking, but now the taste wasn't all that great and the texture was all wrong.

I had the waitress bring me a bunch (and by "bunch" I mean "mountain") of bacon bits to fix the salad. Made it much better. So much for eating healthily.

Now I know why people gain weight when they quit smoking.

Paging Doctors Benson & Hedges . . .

On this last day of 2008, I am sitting in the parking lot of the doctor's office in Salem AR, writing this post out longhand so I can type it in later.

I've completed all my errands that I could while my mother visits the doctor. It's awfully cost-ineffective to have to go visit the doctor just to get your prescriptions refilled, but that's just one more of the Way Things Are.

I've decided to try once again to quit smoking tonight. I want my last pack to be a good one, so I drove all over Thayer this morning looking for a pack of Benson & Hedges menthol 100's. No B&H of any kind to be found anywhere.

At Walmart, the final place I looked, they didn't have any either. They used to carry them; I wonder why they don't anymore.

I realized I would have to settle for something else, so I had the Cigarette Cashier Woman at Wally World grab me a pack of Salem 100's. When I got home with them, I found in little tiny print at the top of the front of the pack the words "Slim Lights." Ugh. I'm smoking one now. Ugh.

By 9:00 it was time to get ready for our trip to Salem. I decided to look for Benson & Hedges there. When I lived in & around Salem, you could find Benson & Hedges anywhere and everywhere.

I had to plan carefully, though. I only had twenty bucks and some pocket change on me, and I wanted to go to Glencoe and buy sausage, buy a newspaper, go to the Dollar General for two 6-packs of ramen and two $1.45 cans of soup for my Armageddon Stash, and top off with gas.

I made it to Glencoe and bought my two packs of sausage. It came to just under eight bucks. On the way, I passed first the Shell station, then the CITGO. Gas was three cents a gallon cheaper than in Thayer at both. On the way back, after stopping at the newspaper office, I drove past both to go to the grocery store, a place I KNOW used to ALWAYS carry Benson & Hedges.

Not anymore, apparently. I should have given up then and got my second choice, Camel Menthol Wides, but I just KNEW there had to be some B&H at one of the gas stations. I went to Shell first (that's White Oak Station for all you Salem longtimers) and topped off with gas there, because at least until January 20th, America is not as Communist as Hugo Chavez.

It only held .7 gallons. That couldn't be right; I had filled up in Thayer the day before and had gotten then, according to my figures, a dismal 13 mpg, nowhere near my usual 17 or 18. I wondered if someone had siphoned out a couple of gallons.

But now you're gonna tell me it ran 41.5 miles on 7/10ths of a gallon? According to the calculator on my cellphone, that's more than 59 mpg! Either we had one helluva tailwind or the pump kicked off too early (which I doubt because I couldn't force anymore gas into the tank).

I went inside and paid my just over a buck and asked if they carry Benson & Hedges.

"Sorry, no."

So I drove ALL the way back out to Hugo Chavez's CITGO. They didn't carry them, either. I gave up and got the Camel Wides. And they cost me almost a buck more than they would have if I'd bought them at the grocery store in the first place.

You just watch; after I quit, there will be Benson & Hedges tempting me everywhere cigarettes are sold.

I did a quick cash inventory and saw I had enough left for my soup and ramen, and headed to the Dollar General. Then a quick stop at the charity store, where I bought an Old Style beer glass for a quarter.

LATER

Back at home now. Mom got finished at the Doctor's office and we went out to eat for lunch at a place I used to frequent in high school for the video games, the 62 Dairy Freeze. There aren't any more video games there, and the marquee out front now says "For Sale By Owner."

We both had the salad bare. Mine had a little lettuce, some mushrooms, cheese, olives, ham cubes, bacon bits, and low-fat ranch dressing, with some pickled okra on the side, and an unsweet iced tea.

If the Health Nazis had gotten the tobacco ban they wanted . . .

. . . then this convenience store worker would in all likelihood be dead.

Police said a masked man flashed a knife at the Cigarette Outlet on Friday and forced one employee to the floor, then demanded money from another worker, Ruth Wright.

Instead of cash, Wright threw two cans of chewing tobacco at the robber, and one hit him in the face.

Officers said a customer then tackled the man, but the robber broke free and bolted out the door.

Song of the Day: Dim Lights, Thick Smoke

Song of the Day: Music for the midget, transvestite version of R to exercise to at the Midget Transvestite Gym.

Song of the Day: Smoke gets in your eyes.

Song of the Day: Puffin' a Winston, drinkin' a 4-0.

The calls to ban it . . .

. . . will begin in 3...2...

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Electronic Cigarette.

The "E-Cig", or Electronic Cigarette, is claimed to be safe because there is no tobacco, tar, or smoke. The pen-sized cigarette is made of plastic and metal and is battery charged. The tiny white cartridges contain water, propylene glycol, nicotine, and a tobacco flavor, and supply enough nicotine for up to two packs of cigarettes.

Why would anyone want to ban such a marvelous product, you might ask. Wouldn't it nullify the arguments of the second-hand-smoke crusaders?

That is precisely why there will be calls for it to be banned.

You can't cut your strongest proponents off at the knees, now can you?

And besides, there's a movement afoot to ban these, isn't there? Doesn't that demonstrate that those who are ban-happy don't need a reason?

Song of the Day: The Incomparable Patsy Cline

Song of the Day: A little bit deadlier.

Why Minnesotan smokers rock.

Ah, the ingenuity of smokers!

All the world's a stage at some of Minnesota's bars. A new state ban on smoking in restaurants and other nightspots contains an exception for performers in theatrical productions. So some bars are getting around the ban by printing up playbills, encouraging customers to come in costume, and pronouncing them "actors."

Song of the Day: Smoke, smoke, smoke that cigarette.

During Smoker Awareness Month, we honor the achievements of Smoker-Americans in our past.

Song of the Day: The flame that burned that somehow turned to smokerings in the dark.

In honor of Smoker Awareness Month: