PURE LARD: SMOKING IS FOR SUCKS

D.J. Kirkbride writes this Pure Lard column every fucking month. He just does. A while back, he asked Wayne if he could put it in tastes like chicken. After several bribes of Guinness, Wayne said, "Why the hell not?" So, on to the good times.
When I was growing up a burgeoning man-boy in Ohio, my pa' (whom I called "Dad") smoked. He wasn’t a hardcore chain-smoker. I just remember him chilling in front of the TV after a hard day's work with a smoke and the occasional Natty Light. He may have gone outside to smoke more often, but I don’t know about that. Maybe Mom suggested it.
In his car is where I really remember that crazy, poisonous pollution getting all up in my shit. He had this little, rusty Toyota that was like an ashtray on wheels. During hot, muggy Ohio summers with his window down was the worst. Especially if I had to ride bitch (read: “backseat”). Enough smoke to blacken a boy’s lungs for a good couple of years enveloped me.
Despite this, Mom was often pleased-- especially when we went on trips where packing was required-- that our clothes didn’t smell like those of a smoker. It was fairly apparent she had wanted Dad to quit. Years later, after their divorce, she told me that she’d made him promise to quit when they’d first gotten married. Seventeen years of smoking matrimony later, she said she should’ve known better.
Now, the spawn of a smoker either starts smoking or will never smoke. Wait, that goes for anyone, really. Okay, here: The children of one or more smoking parents will either smoke like a fuckin' chim-chimney chim-chim-cheroo, or they are so turned off by the skanky stank growing up that they’re annoyingly, vehemently against it.
I was in the latter category; always in the non-smoking section, often exaggerating coughing when a smoker lit up around me. And, sweet tits in the sunshine, if a friend of mine started smoking? I’d give him/her three kinds of shit. And forget dating a smoker. If I wanted to kiss an ashtray, I’d... well, kiss an ashtray, I suppose. Or get therapy. Who the hell would kiss an ashtray? Is that a fetish?
Honestly, I’m not exactly sure when my attitude toward smoking changed. It started in much the same way I started saying "dude" a lot. To wit: I’d bum smokes off some pal, and stage smoke (or "not inhale"). The reasons were threefold:
1. Saving a life. One less ciggy, one less nail in my pal's coffin.
2. Making fun of something by ironically engaging in it (see: saying "dude").
3. It looked kinda cool.
At some point, I stopped fake inhaling. And at some other point, I started liking smokes. Add in a weird desire to be subtly self-destructive and, as is often the way with highly addictive substances, I started "needing" them.
How the shit? These death sticks have grossed me out for over 25 years! What am I doing dropping my hard-earned (and fairly scarce) cash on them? It’s absurd. I should've known better.
The people around me know, obviously, when I smoke around them, but my momma doesn’t. (Oops. Hi, Mom. Busted.) And, contrary to unpopular belief, smoking isn’t all that attractive. Now, I’m not giving smokers unnecessary shit, you know? Even as a smoker, I knew that it stank and often tasted bad in my hypocritical mouth. But I loved it!
Okay. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself by using the past tense in that last sentence. Smoking is a good time after you get used (addicted) to it! Crap! Mmmm... cigarettes.
No! See, dear readers and best friends 4-ever (D.R.A.B.F.F.), after several half-assed attempts at quitting, I still find myself going out for a pack. I quit for a couple of days, then find an excuse to have one more "last one". Absurd! And embarrassing. And I just started being a "smoker" less than a year ago! No wonder my dad had such trouble quitting! A couple damn decades of smoking bliss! And I think I inherited his extreme lack of willpower (and premature gray hair). However, after serious health complications, he did it. He kicked the habit! At least, I’m fairly certain he did. But I don’t want to wait for hospital visits, dig?
So, I’m gonna do it. I don’t want to waste the money. I ain’t even hearin' about no lung cancer. And this really, really hot chick I call "girlfriend" has kinda hinted that it’d be a good idea. (Translation: She wanted us to do it together. I said I would. She did. And I... uh... shit.)
So, yeah, I’m going to quit smoking... now. No... now. Yeah. Okay. I mean, now it’s in writing, so I’ve got no choice!
VISIT D.J. AT PURELARD.NET.