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Three Dudes… Twenty-Five Cigarillos… One Night…

Greg and Jeff roll in at about 11:15pm last night with a five pack of plastic tipped Swisher Sweets (don’t try to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about). After relating the story of their evening (which may or may not have involved Greg passed out in the Slushee machine of the 7 Eleven on Sierra Madre – head stuck under the spigot as Blue Raspberry continuously oozed over his shoulder), we hit the balcony, the brews, the mate and, of course, the cigarillos. Now – it was a five pack, and there were three of us.

The logical solution: As soon as we’d each had one, I drive us down to the 76 and we pick up four more five packs. You may as why this is so logical. Neither five nor twenty-five is divisible by three. I can assure you not only that the decision was made with great care, but that you are thinking way too hard about the situation.

What followed was a good six hour marathon of mate sipping, beer swilling, cigarillo puffing, and smoke ring blowing – along with the requisite amount of BS needed to tie everything together.

My taste buds are now temporarily (I hope) dulled, my right hand still smells like cheap, sweetened cigars, and, to be honest, I feel a little queasy. But it was worth it. Just do’t go barefoot on our balcony for the next day or two.

Or as I refer to my car: my pimped out, sexed up, undone, tricked out little ’98 SL1 that unpimps, out sexes and in general does up everything else on the road.

Of course, not everyone views my ride in the same way. Last night, Jeff tricked me into admitting that Love (pronounce à la Barry White) was not included standard, and that my car was “all about self serve”. I think I was trying to say that car’s lady magnet was capable of being ramped up to any strength, but that that strength was entirely dependent on the car’s owner and driver. Clearly, however, it came out as “I masturbate a lot in my car”.

Think before you speak.