Smoke? A good briar pipe, some nice aromatic tobacco, and I'm happy.
Add a good cigar once in a while, and life is good.
Jim Kelly posted:Agreed. Same with lung cancer. Let's call it "selective culling" from here on out . . .
Selective "culling" can be good sometimes. Unless you're a camel in Australia right now.
Jethro posted:Sweet Jesus, Sittin' downtown in a railway station
Waitin' for the train that goes home, sweet Mary. Hoping that the train is on time.
Bob: IM S6 posted:Smoke? A good briar pipe, some nice aromatic tobacco, and I'm happy.
Add a good cigar once in a while, and life is good.
I would think no less-- but I suspect you smoke sparingly and only after the honest labor of the day is over, when reflecting on the rightness of God's good earth and your place in it. I would surmise you smoke while enjoying a snifter of brandy (on life's special occasions like the birth of a grandchild, or after setting the final piece in a stone wall). Scotch is strictly reserved for events like your 50th wedding anniversary or the day of your retirement.
You live in a 300 y/o stone house that has been in your family for generations. You heat with wood you split and stack yourself. You shovel the pond so the neighbor children will have a nice place to ice skate. You likely have known the townsfolk (who live a respectful distance up the road, and keep themselves to themselves) since you all went to a one-room school together. I can almost see you reading Keats and Wordsworth by the dying light of a fire on a cold winter night, 25 year-old (glass-lens) readers perched on the end of your nose. I suspect you have a Basset hound or two who sleep at the foot of your feather bed, and that you keep a Purdey shotgun over the mantle to hunt quail and grouse (in season).
I'm still wondering how you don't own an Aston Martin or Morgan, but I'm glad you don't so you can hang out with the rest of us unwashed Philistines.
When I grow up, I wanna' be just like you. You sir, are the man.
So, there you have it, Brian.
That's why you need relays in your Speedy.
There are some things on this earth you just need - a snifter of brandy, a fieldstone house, a book of Wordsworth poems, a Basset hound, a feather bed.
Asking why is pointless.
When the time is right, you'll just know.
Attachments
Jim Kelly posted:Agreed. Same with lung cancer. Let's call it "selective culling" from here on out . . .
I have lost two friends in their 40's to lung cancer. Sister in law survived it so far. Another good friend given 6 months to live two years ago but looks like fried meat from the chemo and has had a terrible stroke on top of it - his wife and son still unbelievably smoke
I call it slow suicide....
I do like the smell of a good pipe
Basic relay ops to the smell of a good pipe.
Thread drift at it’s finest.
I love this site.
My go-to Haiku somehow slips my mind ... Damn relays !!
Stan Galat posted:Bob: IM S6 posted:Smoke? A good briar pipe, some nice aromatic tobacco, and I'm happy.
Add a good cigar once in a while, and life is good.
I would think no less-- but I suspect you smoke sparingly and only after the honest labor of the day is over, when reflecting on the rightness of God's good earth and your place in it. I would surmise you smoke while enjoying a snifter of brandy (on life's special occasions like the birth of a grandchild, or after setting the final piece in a stone wall). Scotch is strictly reserved for events like your 50th wedding anniversary or the day of your retirement.
You live in a 300 y/o stone house that has been in your family for generations. You heat with wood you split and stack yourself. You shovel the pond so the neighbor children will have a nice place to ice skate. You likely have known the townsfolk (who live a respectful distance up the road, and keep themselves to themselves) since you all went to a one-room school together. I can almost see you reading Keats and Wordsworth by the dying light of a fire on a cold winter night, 25 year-old (glass-lens) readers perched on the end of your nose. I suspect you have a Basset hound or two who sleep at the foot of your feather bed, and that you keep a Purdey shotgun over the mantle to hunt quail and grouse (in season).
I'm still wondering how you don't own an Aston Martin or Morgan, but I'm glad you don't so you can hang out with the rest of us unwashed Philistines.
When I grow up, I wanna' be just like you. You sir, are the man.
You are much too praiseful in your description of me, Stan, but I will gladly accept it. These days, one takes praise where one finds it, and coming from such an erudite individual as you, such praise means that much more. When the President of Stanistan deigns to even mention one of his lowly subjects, let alone expound upon in such lengths, one takes notice. I tug at my forelock and salute you.
I shall bask in this praise for as long as I can remember it, and strive to uphold such lofty ideals that you hold of me, as difficult as that may be.
Yes, the Poet of Peoria has once against provided us with such pleasing prose. 
Time for me to stuff my pipe and smoke it...
"Poet of Peoria", perfect description.
Panhandle Bob posted:"Poet of Peoria", perfect description.
Right.
While I may wish I was half as witty as Mitch Toll or Eric Erickson, I suppose I'll have to settle for being the village half-wit.
...he half heartedly says...
I love the "Poet of Peoria"! Long live Stanistan, it's leader, and all his subjects!
It beats the Craphead of Corndom or the Sultan of Silage or the Reaper of Refrigeration.
Accept the Poet of Peoria moniker or it's going to get rough around here old buddy!
Piper of Pipes? Dragger of Knuckles? Word Ape?
See what I mean? Go with the Poet of Peoria and smile.
DannyP posted:Piper of Pipes? Dragger of Knuckles? Word Ape?
Love them all. Word Ape, especially so.
Consigliere of Corndom?
Just a sittin’ here a chucklin’ 🤣
DannyP posted:Consigliere of Corndom?
Consigliere is an adviser to a crime boss and corndom is like a fiefdom but in Peoria. LOL
His official title is Bishop of the Open Road, Vicar of Panchito, Supreme Pontiff of the Universal Joint, Primate of Tazewell County, Archbishop of the Peorian Province, Muse of Morton, Sovereign of the Holy Sump, Servant of the Servants of Stanistan.
But you doesn't has to call him Stan.
Word Ape.
When you hear the call you got to get it underway.
Padre Dual Plug
Word Ape!
Yo grease monkeys all around the world
Got a weird thing to show you
So tell all the boys and girls
Tell your brother, your sister, your mechanic too
We’re about to hit the Tail
And you know just what to do
Wave your wrench in the air like you just don't care
Glide by the bikers as they start to look and stare
Rev your whip, make it quick, do the down-shift papa
Come on old man tell me what's the word
Word ape! Everybody says
When you hear the call you've got to get it underway
Word APE it's the code word
No matter where you say it you know that you'll be heard
Now all you sucker customizers thinkin’ you are fly
There's got to be a reason and we know the reason why
Why you put on those airs and you act real cool
Got to realize that you're acting like fools
Air-cooled music we can use it
You're free to dance
We don't have the time for your fiberglass rants
No Certificate of Origin, no rust for me mamma
Come on baby tell me what's the word
Word ape! Everybody says
When you hear the call you've got to get it underway
Dial S for Stan, Dial S for Stan, Dial S for Stan
W.O.R.D. APE, W.O.R.D. APE, W.O.R.D. APE, W.O.R.D. APE
Yeh you P-car fetishists think you're fly
There's got to be a reason and we know the reason why
Why you put on those airs and you act real cool
Got to realize that you're acting like fools
Give us Coco mats and some blue tape, yes, we can drive
We don’t have no time for philosophical jive
No Certificate of Origin, no rust for me mamma
Come on baby tell me what's the word
Word APE! Everybody says
When you hear the call you've got to get it underway
Word APE it's the code word
No matter where you say it you know that you'll be heard
Word ape everybody says
When you hear the call you've got to get it underway
Word ape it's the code word
No matter where you say it you know that you'll be heard
Best.......Drift.......Evah!
Ed:
Magnificent!
It's clear who the real poets are here.
I like Ed's version, but I made the mistake of clicking on the link, and had to endure a few seconds of horrible noise. Whatever happened to the old crooners, or for that matter, anyone who could sing and had a decent voice...?
My ears still hurt.