Excerpted from

Smoking: The Fine Art of Self-Destruction

By Busta Meecockout

Smokers are the heel of society’s Birkenstock hippie PC motherfuckers. Forced out, like a club of defrocked clergy, excommunicated and still sinning, we stand outside, often when it is brisk with a chill, to smoke–even at bars in some places. Most places today don’t even allow you to fire up a smoke at work. But that’s all right with me. I enjoy the exodus from the workplace in search of sinful pleasure.

Each time I smoke a cigarette, my mind wanders back to ancient Greece. You know, those slave-owning misogynist homosexuals on whom the United States based their philosophical and political ideas. The ancient Greeks would pour wine onto the ground as an offering to the gods. These libations were a celebration of the raw, primal forces that fuel the mysteries of life and are responsible for the simple pleasures, such as the growing of grapes. When reaping the rewards of nature, they believed in honoring the forces involved. Smoking is like giving a little to death. How much more alive can one be than when giving a little bit of life back to death? Smoking is pouring a little bit of your precious wine into the dirt. If you are alive–and I am talking more than just having a heartbeat–you have to ask yourself how much you can give. Each cigarette is something like 15 minutes of your life. How can you better honor the spirit of life than by mortgaging it against death for a little pleasure?

Who says quit smoking? Old people. People who have nothing more to give to death. Death is on their ass and they can’t shake it. All those former smokers who took their pleasure and decided to try and cheat death.

Then there are the people engaged in the neurotic pursuit to beat death. Cancer lurks in the shadows of every pleasure for these incorrigible ascetics. Western culture has proved to be fertile ground for those obsessed with beating death, although it is rather fertile for new vices, too. Youth, for me and most people I know, is now. It is here, not a memory recorded in black-and-white images. I have two words for old people and their wisdom. They are tattooed on my arm: Fuck You. You aren’t young anymore.

There is no guarantee that any of us will live to be a senior citizen and get a free cup of coffee. Death is a trapdoor that pops open under our feet, anonymously collecting souls, like a laundry chute for the gods. No one here gets out alive. I want to get my kicks while I still have something to give.

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