Remember that time you got so shitfaced at a house party taking shots of Jameson that you caught an assault charge clocking some dude outside of a convenience store and inciting a brawl for disrespectfully hitting on your girlfriend? Remember how bad you were fiending for a cigarette waiting to go to video court for a day and a fucking half up in the district? No? Okay. Well, you ever quit smoking? For a year? Five years? A decade?
No. No, you didn’t. Because if you ever smoked, you still look at a cigarette when one is in front of you like you're Bugs Bunny coming up on a mirage in the desert in one of those old Looney Tunes cartoons. You walk past a sewer grate with a nice long butt caught in it, and you turn your head as you walk, track it with your eyes, think about picking it up and smoking it. And your heart beats a little faster. You imagine it – the feeling, the tickly rush over your limbs as you take that first deep drag, hold it in; your head takes off with sparkles and stars and suddenly everything’s going to be just fucking fine. You will never feel that again. You will never even feel “okay” again. If anything remotely adversarial happens you will descend into an ever-escalating paranoid freakout and blame everyone around you for everything bad that ever happened until you want to murder your own children with your bare hands. And you will never, ever be able to do anything about it. You didn’t quit smoking; you’re just waiting too god damn long for your next cigarette. Fiending for years while your mind slows down and your soul turns into a hardened thing that only knows hate. Friends, family, society, helping people – who gives a fuck. I need to glare out the window and mutter about those who done me wrong. Gonna get them back some day. Once I get the energy.
Remember how when Barack Obama used to speak, you felt something? Holy fuck, this guy sounds like fucking Franklin Delano Roosevelt reincarnated. I can’t believe I’m interested and engaged in what a politician is saying. You freaked out for him. He was smart, sure, but he also had real fucking passion. Go watch an old clip of the guy. Watch him talking to those black college kids or whatever about Katrina in that speech that Fox news is reheating to freak out old racists. He moved people. This is the same guy you could believe was a star basketball player and a goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus and etc. Neighborhood organizer going door to door in some forgotten post-industrial shantytown straight out of "The Wire", and getting people whose only experience with government was the business end of a police baton taking out their teeth – getting these people engaged in city politics. He moved people, and he loved what he was doing. It showed.
He smoked back then. All the way through the ’08 campaign, and then he quit. His medical report in 08 said, “continue smoking cessation efforts.” He was chewing Nicorette. But since he was on a doctor-supervised medical program, he would have quit the Nicorette, too. He would have staggered it down slowly over several months, six pieces a day, four pieces a day, two pieces a day – from the auspicious beginning of his presidency to the long drawn out months when it became clear he couldn’t get anything through Congress. He never picked up the phone and called legislators to push shit through, even Democrats. He hated socializing. Washington parties – that’s where you get shit done. That’s where you have a brandy with John Boehner and have a laugh and talk about old pussy and golf or fishing or whateverthefuck and in your heart you realize this guy isn’t so bad, let’s get something done together. Have a shared legacy. Even Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich did this. But Obama said he had to spend time with his daughters. Mr. President: first of all, fuck your daughters; they’ll live. But also: they want to spend time with you, not this crabby worn out shell of you. The real you that they love is the you who smokes.
And then he didn’t smoke with chainsmoking John Boehner during the budget negotiations. This is what killed the historic compromise that the normally intransigent Congress was ready to make. If they had had a cigarette togethe, that deal would have been made. Because of that secret bond that smokers have in this uptight sewing circle of a society. Us against the world.
Had to be Michelle who made him quit. Her and whatever pansyass square they hired as White House Physician. Barack, we want you to be around to see Sasha and Malia grow up; the country needs to you to be healthy. Bullshit. Lung cancer is determined by genetics, smoking accounts for about ten per cent of the variance(not factual in any way), and the country does not need you running a six minute mile. The country needs you mentally healthy and quitting smoking temporarily shatters and permanently saps your mental health. You will never not be dumb, short-fused and miserable if you once smoked and now you don’t. You will always be cruel and hostile and paranoid. That’s why they give nicotine to patients with Alzheimer’s; it’s a god damn miracle drug that keeps your mind working, keeps the synapses firing. If you have ever tasted this feeling, then forevermore... the juices must flow.
Now Obama is just lame. Andrew Sullivan was right about the debates – he got his ass handed to him. But it’s not just the debates. Every time the guy opens his mouth you can tell he hates being there, hates what he’s doing, just wants to go home and glare out a window and mutter about all the people who fucked him over and how he’s going to get them back. Even watching him down the shore trying to comfort hurricane victims he looks tired and haggard. He’s turned into Nixon after he quit drinking. Listening to Barack Obama now inspires the opposite of hope. Of passion. He makes you cringe. He makes you wince like a cold hand on the back of your neck and you feel like if you went up and talked to the guy his face would be struggling to lift his smile. And his eyes would tell you that he hates you. That he just wants to go home. Fuck this “president” and “America” shit, I just want a motherfucking cigarette.
Mr. President: for yourself, for your family, for our country: pick up a nice Kool or Newport or whateverthefuck brand of menthol cigartettes you used to smoke, and smoke that shit down like it was Karl Rove smoking some poolboy’s cock. Feel the burn; feel the pain; feel the damage ravaging your lungs. Then feel the bliss, the super speed, the confidence trickling into your brain and lifting your heart to the heavens. Our problems aren’t so bad. Congress isn’t so insurmountable. The Middle East isn’t such a clusterfuck. Let’s get out there and do this, America. Hope. Change. Tobacco. Mr. President: for the love of fuck, go out there and burn one. Otherwise you’re just the walking dead.
No. No, you didn’t. Because if you ever smoked, you still look at a cigarette when one is in front of you like you're Bugs Bunny coming up on a mirage in the desert in one of those old Looney Tunes cartoons. You walk past a sewer grate with a nice long butt caught in it, and you turn your head as you walk, track it with your eyes, think about picking it up and smoking it. And your heart beats a little faster. You imagine it – the feeling, the tickly rush over your limbs as you take that first deep drag, hold it in; your head takes off with sparkles and stars and suddenly everything’s going to be just fucking fine. You will never feel that again. You will never even feel “okay” again. If anything remotely adversarial happens you will descend into an ever-escalating paranoid freakout and blame everyone around you for everything bad that ever happened until you want to murder your own children with your bare hands. And you will never, ever be able to do anything about it. You didn’t quit smoking; you’re just waiting too god damn long for your next cigarette. Fiending for years while your mind slows down and your soul turns into a hardened thing that only knows hate. Friends, family, society, helping people – who gives a fuck. I need to glare out the window and mutter about those who done me wrong. Gonna get them back some day. Once I get the energy.
Remember how when Barack Obama used to speak, you felt something? Holy fuck, this guy sounds like fucking Franklin Delano Roosevelt reincarnated. I can’t believe I’m interested and engaged in what a politician is saying. You freaked out for him. He was smart, sure, but he also had real fucking passion. Go watch an old clip of the guy. Watch him talking to those black college kids or whatever about Katrina in that speech that Fox news is reheating to freak out old racists. He moved people. This is the same guy you could believe was a star basketball player and a goddamn sexual tyrannosaurus and etc. Neighborhood organizer going door to door in some forgotten post-industrial shantytown straight out of "The Wire", and getting people whose only experience with government was the business end of a police baton taking out their teeth – getting these people engaged in city politics. He moved people, and he loved what he was doing. It showed.
He smoked back then. All the way through the ’08 campaign, and then he quit. His medical report in 08 said, “continue smoking cessation efforts.” He was chewing Nicorette. But since he was on a doctor-supervised medical program, he would have quit the Nicorette, too. He would have staggered it down slowly over several months, six pieces a day, four pieces a day, two pieces a day – from the auspicious beginning of his presidency to the long drawn out months when it became clear he couldn’t get anything through Congress. He never picked up the phone and called legislators to push shit through, even Democrats. He hated socializing. Washington parties – that’s where you get shit done. That’s where you have a brandy with John Boehner and have a laugh and talk about old pussy and golf or fishing or whateverthefuck and in your heart you realize this guy isn’t so bad, let’s get something done together. Have a shared legacy. Even Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich did this. But Obama said he had to spend time with his daughters. Mr. President: first of all, fuck your daughters; they’ll live. But also: they want to spend time with you, not this crabby worn out shell of you. The real you that they love is the you who smokes.
And then he didn’t smoke with chainsmoking John Boehner during the budget negotiations. This is what killed the historic compromise that the normally intransigent Congress was ready to make. If they had had a cigarette togethe, that deal would have been made. Because of that secret bond that smokers have in this uptight sewing circle of a society. Us against the world.
Had to be Michelle who made him quit. Her and whatever pansyass square they hired as White House Physician. Barack, we want you to be around to see Sasha and Malia grow up; the country needs to you to be healthy. Bullshit. Lung cancer is determined by genetics, smoking accounts for about ten per cent of the variance(not factual in any way), and the country does not need you running a six minute mile. The country needs you mentally healthy and quitting smoking temporarily shatters and permanently saps your mental health. You will never not be dumb, short-fused and miserable if you once smoked and now you don’t. You will always be cruel and hostile and paranoid. That’s why they give nicotine to patients with Alzheimer’s; it’s a god damn miracle drug that keeps your mind working, keeps the synapses firing. If you have ever tasted this feeling, then forevermore... the juices must flow.
Now Obama is just lame. Andrew Sullivan was right about the debates – he got his ass handed to him. But it’s not just the debates. Every time the guy opens his mouth you can tell he hates being there, hates what he’s doing, just wants to go home and glare out a window and mutter about all the people who fucked him over and how he’s going to get them back. Even watching him down the shore trying to comfort hurricane victims he looks tired and haggard. He’s turned into Nixon after he quit drinking. Listening to Barack Obama now inspires the opposite of hope. Of passion. He makes you cringe. He makes you wince like a cold hand on the back of your neck and you feel like if you went up and talked to the guy his face would be struggling to lift his smile. And his eyes would tell you that he hates you. That he just wants to go home. Fuck this “president” and “America” shit, I just want a motherfucking cigarette.
Mr. President: for yourself, for your family, for our country: pick up a nice Kool or Newport or whateverthefuck brand of menthol cigartettes you used to smoke, and smoke that shit down like it was Karl Rove smoking some poolboy’s cock. Feel the burn; feel the pain; feel the damage ravaging your lungs. Then feel the bliss, the super speed, the confidence trickling into your brain and lifting your heart to the heavens. Our problems aren’t so bad. Congress isn’t so insurmountable. The Middle East isn’t such a clusterfuck. Let’s get out there and do this, America. Hope. Change. Tobacco. Mr. President: for the love of fuck, go out there and burn one. Otherwise you’re just the walking dead.
funny stuff man
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