Note To My Chain Smoking Friends
Now, first off I want to make it clear that I ain't no Body Nazi, here to tell you what you may or may not do with your own flesh. I'm no Puritan; I've been drinking whisky since I was twelve years old, I've dosed and 'shroomed and smoked bowls and big fat joints and hits from a six-foot-tall bong that left me unable to move under my own power for half an hour. And yes, I've even puffed on the occasional cigar or ceremonial pipe. Always, I should note, in a well-ventilated area where I wasn't blowing smoke upon the unwilling. But I'm not here to yell at you about second-hand smoke, you've heard that all before. Most of you obviously didn't fucking listen, but you've heard it before.
No, my friends, all I'm here to do is point out something about your relationship with the cigarette corporations. You know, the ones that seduced your naive ass into addition. The ones who fucked you over then and fuck you over with every cancer stick you set fire to.
And fucked is the right word, ladies and gentlemen. Because the cigarette is the penis of Corporate America.
The cigarette is the penis of Corporate America - sickly white, small and atrophied, but always erect, ready to plunge into anyone it can, male or female (though with a preference, it is whispered, for pedophilia). And every time you suck on it, some fat man in a three piece suit, some greasy corporate bastard, is moaning and panting as he shoots his gray poison wad into your mouth.
And he's seduced you so bad - with lies about how it's cool or rebellious or romantic or whatever, 'cause he'll say anything to get laid - he's seduced you so bad, you pay him for the privilege.
Enjoy your cigarette.
--Tom Swiss
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