. . . on medical marijuana, and why the Feds should chill in Cali.

Me—I'm finishing a Cohiba. A real, Cuban Cohiba. (Hey: why is Cuba any different from China? Give 'em enough rope—er, hemp, whatever—and they'll build something useful with it.)

I bought my mother a senior steak with the salad bar option at the Sizzler right outside Inglewood. Our personal Sizzler. We talked about Nebraska, of course. Afterward we went back and chatted until the dog calmed down. I showed the mom how to use her new digital camera, and then proceeded to head on home. I wanted a smoke, however, on the way back to the Pasadena area.

"So, where's your cigar cutter?" I asked.

"My what?

I lopped off the end of the Cohiba with one of her kitchen knives, and smoked it on the way back. I kept relighting it, but you know how cigars are. The last couple of inches get wet and weird and difficult to re-light. So I'm going to bed, hoping the drapes and my clothes and my car don't stink too much when I wake up in the morning.

I mean, it all good fun, until I have to do that extra load of laundry to exorcise that wet, doglike, smokey smell out of all my clothes.

It was worth it, though.

And, unlike the case with medical marijuana, it would have been easy to talk my way out of it if I'd been stopped.

Maybe.

Posted by: Attila Girl at 12:39 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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