Mr Blake Steps Up to the Ashtray

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There I was, swapping tales of old smoker-friendly Dublin with some eminent cigar comrades in an Irish smokeasy tucked away somewhere, the whereabouts of which I will tell you not.

Some of you unsainted sinners will, no doubt, know of similar havens.

This is a place where alternatively oxygenated persons step up to an anonymous door a nicotine companion has recommended, and knock three times.

Then the little hatch in the door opens and a voice deepened by decades of smoking intones, 'Yes?'

I can't leave those Ramon Allones

1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 1 Rating 3.65 (13 Votes)
Greetings my fellow cigar connoisseurs,

To many people, working in a cigar shop seems like a dream come true. The best coffee in town on tap, surrounded by the world's finest cigars and getting to mingle with all friendly people that pass through our doors.

While this may be true, people tend to forget about the torture that we merchants of quality tobacco go through on a daily basis. Being immersed in those intoxicating aromas is not easy especially since the vile smoking ban forbids us from quenching our cigar lust when necessary.

Every now and then I open a box of cigars and it brings me to the point of saying fuck the fascists I'm firing up one of these bad boys, now!