Clove Smokers: A Guest Editorial
I have never trusted people who smoke clove cigarettes. My opinion? They’re all a bunch of douche bags, every last one of them. I know what they’re thinking to themselves as they pull out and light that tightly rolled little sh*tstick. They’re thinking that the semi-sweet stink it emanates makes them a unique individual; a stink that proudly and defiantly states “I’m a non-conformist!” Pseudo intellectual, false bohemians, all. Jack Kerouac wannabe’s who’ve never read a page of On The Road.
They really believe it too, thinking they stand out from the rest of us conforming worker bees by going against the grain. Being different, right. No one’s going to tell them how to dress, behave, or smoke. No f&*^ing way. They attempt, between drags, to wax poetic about “good art”, misquote authors like William Burroughs and Hunter Thompson and pretend to dig miserable sad bastard music like The Smiths, Bauhaus and Nine Inch Nails while secretly their spare time is spent spread out on their Hello Kitty comforters writing letters to the Nickelback fan club newsletter, praying like crazy Chad Kroeger writes them back.
The cracks in their puny façade start to show, though, when they use non words such as “irregardless”, “affidavid”, “expresso”, “interpretate” and “supposably”. Makes me chuckle and want to vomit, simultaneously, each and every time.
Sometimes I feel sorry for the deluded bastards, but for the most part I just really despise them immensely.
Out in the smoking pit, on the north side of the building I work in, as these clove smokers are outwardly judging me with their sideways looks and blowing orange flavored smoke rings in my direction, I am quietly judging them.
And I hate them.