They Call Me Mr. Smoke

Okay, I don't understand how it happens, but I keep finding my way into these cigarette company promotional events. A few weeks ago, we had the Marlboro Cowboy breakfast, and then this weekend, I rocked the Camel Speakeasy Tour. It's my opinion that the only reason they called it the Speakeasy Tour was because Roaring 20s Whorehouse Tour wouldn't fit on the marquee out in front. They did a pretty good job on the theme with all of the dancing hoochies and whatnot, but they lost definite points when the waitresses refused to fight me over Warren G. Harding or what a travesty those talkies are. The crowd consisted of 30 confused people who were there to see Stellastarr, and then 300 chain smoking older folks who wanted that racket shut up pronto so they could get back to talking about their upcoming tracheotomies and the best places to buy those voice buzzers.

In all fairness to the estate of Joe Camel, I wasn't invited to this one and I'm not really sure how I even got in. All I can think is that Corporate America is slowly cottoning to the fact that I am the voice of the cigarette smoking public. Yes, it's true I've smoked maybe 5 cigarettes in my lifetime and all of these made me dry heave and then collapse in a heap on my laundry hamper. I have, however, eaten a lot of candy cigarettes. In fact, if you count those, I've got a 3 pack a day habit that could rage out of control at any moment. Anyway, I'm hoping the chewing tobaccy companies will get on board too so I can get a VIP pass to Spitoon Fest. I can see it now: me and Robert Duvall sitting around a barrel, playing gin rummy and muttering about those damn liberals. And to answer a question that will surely come up then: no, I would not like any ABC tobaccy, Mr. Duvall.

So, is everyone clear that on Saturday night, you should leave your valuables in your wall safe and make it on over to my place for some libations, a veggie tray (with ranch dip, holla!), and an allnight game of Uno? Wait, I didn't mean Uno, I meant Drunko, which is not so much a game as it is a philosophical movement and a compelling reason to wet your pants. I'm getting off track. The Tricentennial is on Saturday at my house in Austin. You can come if you promise not to stab me or sell any footage from the evening to Fat Dudes Gone Wild; email for directions. Okay, we've got a big week coming up, so let's keep our wits about us and save any law enforcement altercations for this weekend, where a large crowd of drunk people can only make the situation safer.