Death by Cool

Smoking is cool.

Smoking will always be cool. That’s what the fake-documentaries-involving-actors-playing-students-who-confront-the-big tobacco-companies-with graphic-evidence-of-the-supposed-“Truth”-about-smoking never get. Senators don’t get it. Parents’ groups don’t get it. Hell, even the medical community doesn’t get it.

Smoking is cool…

And being cool is everything and nothing and everything when you’re crawling at dawn. And walking tall all day. And limping and pimping with a cane, hitting the nightclubs.

Cool like Oedipus. Cool like icecube eyeballs, melting in your mitts.
Smoking is cool…

Cool is bad, cool is outlaw, cool isn’t down with the logical order of the world. Cool don’t care what you think you know.

Smoking might be bad for your body, and everyone else’s, but cool comes first. Always.

Cuz unlike good health, cool gets you laid.

Nobody ever got lucky over a good physical. Not in a way anyone really considers “lucky,” that is, except maybe the doctor.

But cool cats end up cuddling with all kinds of pussy, and nothing’s cooler than cigarettes for striking up a conversation with all kinds of… lovely lonely ladies… And just try untangling each other’s legs, finding her glasses, and collapsing semi-conscious on a sweat-soaked bed, reeking of musk and heat, and offering her a piece of sugarless gum or a handi-wipe, and see if she calls you back. No, health may be important and serious, but it ain’t cool. Once the limbs are unwound and the panting is finished, a lit cigarette is cylindric nirvana for two.

And nothing but nothing’s cooler than nirvana…

Except for smoking.