Dear Non Smoker

I quit smoking cigarettes just about two years ago.  Yes it was tough, and yes, I know it wasn't doing me any good.  I've lost almost forty pounds since then, and am in better shape than I have been in years.  That being said, I still enjoy the occasional cigar and pipe.  It's calming, it tastes good, and remember kids, it makes you look cool.

My grandfather smoked cigars.

 

My dad smokes cigars.

 

So, yeah, I smoke cigars.

This week, I took some vacation time and went to Atlantic City.  This is a city where I would routinely go through half a carton of cigarettes in a trip back in my smoking heyday.  Now, with anti-smoking laws, and the general outcry of the public to make things difficult for anyone to have a vice that isn't food, sex, or terrible reality television, most casinos only have one small area where a man can gamble and light up a stogie in peace.  That, paired with what is apparently a new law that every casino has to blast "Starships" by Nicky Minaj at least once every half hour, can lead to some aggravating times. 

I found myself in one such room my second day at the shore.  I walked into the designated smoking area, and saw right away that there were two brand new Iron Man machines near the entrance.  Unfortunately, one was being played by a lady no younger than 80.  The second, immediately next to it, was occupied by her equally not young husband.  He was not playing the game, only sitting there to be with his wife.  Say what you will about me, but I did not ask him if I could play the game.  I simply took note of how much money she had left to play on the screen, and went to another game to bide my time.

The only game that was open in the immediate area was an older style game, but I reluctantly sat down and gave it a try.  The name of this game?

 

This is a game in which if you spin a winning combination, you are rewarded with both credits and wonderful Glamour Shots of different cats.  Instead of playing a game with Scarlet Johansson in a catsuit, I was seated at the feline equivalent of the Sex In the City slot machine.  Karma needed to be extra nice to me for not making that old guy get out of his chair.

While I played Kitty Glitter, I reacquainted myself with a friend, Mr. Arturo Fuente.  The cigar was excellent, and I hit a bonus quickly on the game, so I had a good excuse to get up.  I figured enough time had passed for the lady to finish her credits, and rounding the last bank of machines, I saw I was right.  The couple was gone, and only a middle aged man was seated in the left hand machine.  I grabbed an ash tray, and sat down on the right hand machine, cigar in hand.

Immediately, as I put my money in the machine, the man next to me muttered, "Jesus Christ."  I figured he wasn't having any luck with the machine, and I started playing.  Five seconds or so pass, and he starts "coughing".  This was not real coughing.  He was about as convincing as Keanu Reeves was as a Brit in Dracula.  I chose to ignore him, and keep playing.

Someone had eaten their passive aggressive pancakes that morning, because he started doing it louder and more deliberately.   I had enough and finally turned to him.

"Is there a problem?"

He looked at me like I had slapped him in the face with the corpse of his first childhood pet.  There was sheer horror on this man's face, as if I had stated that I endorsed using dolphins to kill other dolphins, and then killing those killer dolphins with the cast of the Kitty Glitter game. He immediately cashed out, and walked away.

Call me crazy, but I was in the smoking section.  I think that gives me pretty much free reign to enjoy a cigar without someone bitching or whining at me.  This was quite literally the only place where it was even legal for me to have that cigar while in the casino.  If you have so much of an issue with smoke, go play the other 100,000 slot machines in the casino that are located outside of the 100ft by 100ft smoking section.  It isn't that hard.  All the other crybabies are doing it, so you should fit right in.  Apollo Creed fought and died defending the rights of all Americans to do what they want to do, and you are spitting on his grave with your apathetic dramatics.  

It was your loss anyway.  I was sharing my delicious cigar with you, for free I might add.  Had you stuck around, I would have also treated you to my rendition of the song "Iron Man", sung in the style of that great plastic surgery disaster Sir Kenneth Rogers. I also don't know any of the lyrics, so I tend to sing it, "I am Iron Man.  Iron iron iron iron IRON MAN!"