This evening, I feasted on lamb, with baby carrots and new potatoes. Yes, it was a meal composed entirely of child-flesh. Lovely. Continuing the evil bastard theme, my breath now smells of whisky and my fingers reek of tobacco. Those leaves are sticky and the smell persists after repeated washing. It's great. In fact, if Lady Gaga happens by, a dress made of dried tobacco leaves would look absolutely stunning, and you can rip a bit off and smoke it if you run out of cigarettes.
All I need now is an underground lair and Don Shenker tied to a table with a big laser heading for his knackers. Unlike that incompetent oaf Goldfinger, I intend to stay there to make sure the job's done. None of this secret cutty watch thing rubbish, no casually turning away for a chat.
I'm going to need more than one table too. And probably some help with the electricity bill. Those knacker-cauterising lasers are worse than tumble driers, you know. Then again, if I had Scaramanga's solar array I could power it for free. That Bond bloke is lucky his enemies never properly teamed up.
Well, that's all far in the future and depends on me winning the lottery. My chances would be improved if I actually bought a ticket, but not by very much.
In the meantime, I will have to settle for being the Man with the Yellowed Finger or maybe Blosmoke, with a rather off-white cat, and just dream about those imaginative ways of exacting terrible revenge on those Nazi-inspired denormalisers. Oh, you can shout 'Godwin' all you want, antismokers. Just have a read of this while you do. Then maybe you can revert to shouting 'Heil' as your kind did in times past, and will again. It's all you can aspire to because you're no damn use for anything other than being someone's drone.
I don't compare smokers to the Jews. If you are born Jewish then you are Jewish and they'll come for you again one day. Smokers are more like the Jehovah's Winesses who also died in those camps. We could stop smoking and conform to the demands of the smug controllers, just as that option was available to the JW's. Like them, I will not conform. You're going to have to gas me, smokophobes, and don't think I'm going to be all meek about it. There will be blood and not all of it mine.
Pat Nurse is on top form lately. In another post she describes how the NHS will refuse to treat us unless we agree to assimilation into the collective. Oh, and if you're an overweight smokophobe, don't smile until you've read it.
So be it. Once that is in place, the scene is set for a class action charging the NHS with extortion. We all have to pay National Insurance and that's supposed to pay for the NHS (I know it doesn't really, but many people still believe that crap). So we are forced, with threats, to pay for a service that does not exist for us.
We won't win. That's for sure. We won't win because the defence will make clear that National Insurance is not earmarked for the NHS but is in fact an extra income tax for the government to spend on anything they like. It's the only defence available. The effect of that in the national news could be interesting, don't you think? Ozzy the Chancer once mentioned putting NI in with income tax, because that's what it is, but that went quiet very quickly. Someone doesn't want it becoming too clear.
What is perhaps even more interesting is Pat's link to an Australian smokophobe site. It's full of the usual petulance and smug whining and all the crap these idiots actually believe but it has its amusing side too.
Smoky-drinky is free. Bring some booze, bring your own smokes, but there is no membership fee and no entry charge. Being an antismoker means you have to pay to hate. Oh yes, smokophobes, it costs you money to hate me. It costs me nothing to hate you. It's a testament to the dedication of the haters that the page still has '2009' at the top. What does it cost you to hate me today?
The smokophobes pay to be told lies, they pay to be scared, they pay to be pompous self-important arseholes and they pay to hate. Smokers just relax and blow smoke rings and you know what? Stress will kill you faster than smoke will kill me. It's not the second hand smoke that's killing you. It's worrying about it.
So go ahead, smokophobes, believe that carbon monoxide is cumulative because red blood cells are never replaced. Believe that there is enough poison in one whiff of smoke to instantly give you cancer when I've been smoking them for thirty years without incident. Believe it, worry about it, lose sleep over it, be terrified of it and if we ever meet I will be delighted to expand on the nonsense you have been taught. I love this game.
You an argue that it's not a game, that it's serious. No, it's a game. Smokophobes, you don't get it. You are not the players in this game. You are the pieces. The likes of ASH put crap in your heads and send you out. I, and those like me, put more crap in your heads and send you back. The game ends (for you) when one of us manages to induce your death.
Have I spoiled the game by telling you this? No, because you smokophobes won't believe it. You can't grasp it. All you believe is what suits your prejudice and this information cannot possibly have been planted by game players. Keep moving on that board, smokophobes. Your smugness and gullibility ensures we get to keep playing.
Even if the smokophobes all woke up to reality, the game continues with the salinophobes, alcophobes, obesophobes and many others. Usually it's mostly the same people so we don't even have to come looking for you.
Is it true? Are we using you haters as pawns in a sick and cruel game? Or am I just playing with your mind? That is the essence of the game I've just described so maybe it's real, maybe it's not.
For once, smokophobes, you have to decide.
Meanwhile, watch out for that candle. The best material for candle wicks was discovered by Trappist monks, centuries ago. It's a special kind of twine.
It's made from the stems of the tobacco plant.
Didn't you know? Everyone else knows.