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Old 12-18-2004, 03:11 PM   #1
RichBomb
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Join Date: Nov 2004
Location: Cleveland, Ohio
Posts: 390
[Contest]: Got a funny story about a cigar you had to ditch?

Contest time assbutts!

The goal: To get some funny cigar ditching reads!

How to: Write up a story (or two!) about the funniest anecdote you have about a moment when you had to stop smoking or ditch your cigar in a hurry. Wife catch you? Inhale and drop it on your lap when driving? Whatever it is, make it funny or amazing and post it up!

Winning: The winner will be decided by a vote among the players. The winnings will be comprised of at least 5 good smokes from me as well as anybody else that wants to pitch in. All players will be asked to send at least one cigar to the winner. You donít have to contribute a story to add to the prize package. Hell, you can even send smokes to any player if you like their story, regardless of win or loss.

Story contributorís votes will be counted up January 15th, and the winner announced the 16th. You have until then to tell your story. All stories will be added to this post as time continues. No prerequisites about post count or registration date. Please try to make the stories of some length and substance, not just ďI smoked the wrong end and dropped it lol.Ē

Iíll wait till halfway through to add mine.

Till then, post up!


NolanE

A while back, my parents didn't know I smoked. I figured they wouldn't like me doing it, so I kinda sneaked a cigar in while they were gone. One week, they went off somewhere for about an hour and a half, so I decided to smoke my first WOAM. I barely got halfway when I see them coming down the road and I had to throw it out so I didn't get caught.

When they finally found out they didn't care, as long as I didn't smoke inside.

My suspicious thinking made me put out a damn fine cigar way before its time.

P.S. to make this story make more sense, you'd have to know I'm 18 and live with my parents.


rookie139

I got one...A buddy of mine (Hegemonic..Mike) sent me one of my favorite domestics, a Fittapaldi Trophy (torpedo size)...I waited and waited until it was slow as hell at work and finally lit it up....Pure heaven!...I'm driving down the street when I see a POS car coming toward me with its brights on (first clue)...it was also speeding (about fifteen over)...I spin around, still clutching my awesome cigar, and upon running the plate, the car comes back STOLEN Shocked Rant

DAMMIT!!!! Rant

I call it off and continue following the car until backup arrives and then I plan to do a felony stop...THeres three sh*theads in the car (between 16-20 years old)...My backup arrives, I hit the lights and the car speeds up down a sidestreet about fifty, suddenly slams on the brakes and all the occupants bail...By this time, my precious cigar is on the passenger floor because I had to toss it there...We run after the sh*theads, catch one (the oldest) and the other two get away (for now)...We find that of the two that took off, one lost both his Nike shoes (that'll teach the little sh*t to tie his shoelaces!!!...LOL) and the other one lost his jacket...Both items (actually three) were found on a nearby lawn...Keep in mind that it's about 20 degrees...pretty cold to be without shoes or a jacket..LOL....soooo...we take the one to the PD and other officers are looking for the other two...
about four hours later around 6AM when the WHite Hen Pantry opens, one of our guys mentioned how we're looking for these two males not far from the Hen...He mentions it to one of his customers who lives down that area...and the customer is driving home and sees the two subjects walking down the street and one of them is wearing these HUUUGE Donald Duck slippers with the big head on the front of it...He calls us and two of our units get there and these two idiots (cold, tired and hungry from evading the police all night) give up immediately....They are both brought in and the one wearing these hilarious stupid looking Donald Duck slippers is trying to act tough with us and it's almost impossible not to laugh at him because of these silly slippers...LOL

I get the kid's ID and believe it or not, his first name is...you guessed it...DONALD Rolling On The Floor Laughing Rolling On The Floor Laughing Rolling On The Floor Laughing Rolling On The Floor Laughing Rolling On The Floor Laughing

Anyway, I tell Mike (Heg) what happened and a week later, he sends me another one with a warning not to toss this one...LOL

Now I make sure that when I am about to enjoy a wonderful cigar during slow times at work, I make sure that I am in an empty dark parking lot where no stolen cars have a chance of driving past me..LOL


Slimebody

OK, here's a one Iím not terribly proud of.....

I don't smoke in the house, so winter can be brutal. Last February, it was about 12 degrees here in PA, I decided to torch a VSG. I went outside and fired it up. It was about 12:30 am, and I got "the itch". You golfers know "the itch". Anyway. all I wanted to do was tee 1 up and hit it. 1 ball, just for shats and giggles.

In preparation, I shoveled a small 2 x 2 tee box in the snow. I managed to get a tee into the ground and eyed up an opening between 2 trees in the woods behind my house. I grabbed my trusty Titliest 3-iron and took a few practice swings. I took a hit of the VSG - man was it good. Then I put a ball on the tee and "let her rip". I took dead aim.

The ball went right between the 2 trees. However, since it had been 5 months since I hit a golf ball, I forgot about my wicked slice. I heard a loud thud, followed by a display of sparks that would make the best 4th of July fireworks celebration pale.

As it turned out, I hit a transformer on a power pole. Immediately, all the lights in the neighborhood went out. I stood there for a moment, looking like "Uncle Eddy" from Christmas vacation. I guess I had a few too many pints that night. I pitched the VSG in the snow and ran into the house. About 40 minutes later, the power company arrived in the neighborhood.

By 8 am the next morning we had power (and heat) again. That was one time I wished I would've lit a Connie.


sevenmag
I've never had to pitch one, but one summer afternoon I was building a new rose garden in the front yard for Mrs. Mag. I had to till up a 15 by 40 foot area, add ammenities, put down weed barrier, mulch and plant.

I got finished with the tiller and grabbed a connie #9. When I need both hands and I don't want the thing hanging out of the cake hole I just toss it over in the grass and grab again when I'm ready.

I stepped back to see how things were looking and to think about what I need to drag out to the front yard next. That's when the fuckin wasp stung me. I jumped up and started cussing every living thing within ear shot. My neighbors were covering the kids ears, and little old ladys were passing out. After the pain eased some, I calmed down and started looking to see if I had killed the damn thing. When I walked back over the where I was standing, the ony thing I found was my poor old smashed flat connie #9. The dreaded Maduro wasp.

Ed Toner
I'm 73, and am still building and flying free flight model airplanes. These are of the stick and tissue construction, glue, dope, etc..

About a week ago, I was covering and doping a model, while smoking a nice Bucanero Captain. I had the dope brush in one hand, and the cigar in the other. After doping, it is necessary to clean the brush by dipping it in thinner, of which I had in an open bottle next to my ashtray.

Well, I put the wet brush in my ashtray and the burning cigar in the big bottle of thinner, but before it reached the surface, it went WHHOOOSHH, exploded from the volatile thinner fumes. Big blue flame, singed the hair off my fingers and the back of my hand.

No harm done, and I salvaged my good camel hair brush.

It sure is fun in these GOLDEN YEARS. Yeah, right.

Did I tell you about the time I was cleaning my uppers with the toilet lid up....?

Over the hill? What hill? I don't see no damn hill.

Where's my glasses?


7070Once upon a time there were some brands of sub-standard cigars taking up room in my humidor. I was working long hours at the time, and although that's not a valid excuse, when I returned home one day, I reached into my treasure trove and retrieved the first stick that touched my fingertips. After looking at the cigar in my hand, I realized the horrible dilemma that had befallen me. Was it a premium? No. But was it a dog rocket? Well, that was a good question. The general consensus, was yes. But why should I believe rumors about a cigar I have never tried? Perhaps all those folks from the now defunct JRBB had an axe to grind. Shouldn't I give any cigar a fair chance, and pass judgment only after trying one myself? The decision was final. I was going to try a dreaded vintage Papayo.

I went into my dark office carrying a domestic beer and put an exhaust fan in the window, then turned on my Intel 486 computer with a dial up modem. The sound of the screeching modem trying to connect to a server was drowned out by the blues music emitting from the CD boombox next to me. The dim light of the monitor glow cascaded over the keyboard, causing long shadows to be cast on my desktop. I turned on a nearby lamp, and rested the cigar in an ashtray by my side. It looked fairly well constructed, but looks can be deceiving. The hideous band was garish, but the colors gave me warm patriotic feelings.

I retrieved my cutter, and lifted the Papayo. Thoughts of "demís good gars" filled my head. Sarcasm? Or genuine affection? As I clipped the cigar, bits of tobacco drifted lazily, sprinkling upon the ashtray. There was no question that this was not long filler. Some folks had reported this fact after previously performing surgical dissection upon them, but first hand knowledge is the true test. I thought, "Well, I've had some pretty good medium and short filled cigars." I picked up a torch and squeezed the trigger. A spark was emitted, but no flame. Again I tried. Nothing! Damn, out of butane. I went to my closet, got the butane, and filled the lighter. I took some time to check my email, then tried the torch again. Success!

I lit the Papayo then took a puff. The smoke that emitted from the end of the cigar was colorless, and the smoke that entered my mouth was tasteless. Maybe it just needs to burn down a bit, and the flavor will kick in. Well, unfortunately I was right. About one third of the way down, the flavor did develop. Now I truly knew the origin of the term dog rocket. I was about to mash out the stick, and return to my humidor for another more prized smoke, when the cigar came alive. It started to sizzle and make small popping sounds. I looked at it with fear and dread. What diabolical demon was possessing this cigar? It must be exorcised immediately. But before I had a chance to kill the evil within, there was a loud BANG! Pieces of short-filler tobacco exploded over my keyboard, on my desktop, my arms, clothes and onto the floor. Needless to say, the Papayo met an early demise, and nearly took me with it.

In the aftermath of this catastrophic event, I located scorch marks in various parts of the room, and tended to the minor burns inflicted upon my person. There were bits of a hard black charred substance that I concluded must be the remains of a beetle. My verdict was in. The Papayo, deserved it's infamous reputation. It was truly unworthy. I'm not embarrassed to say that I weeped while disposing of the other stray Papayos in my humidor, for I was concerned that my other cigars would be infected by "The Curse Of The Papayo".

rightwinger
My wife and I have a pretty good (IMHO) system about the cigar smoke, and all I have to do is smoke in the office. I can be inside (where it's warm) but only the office.

I was painting the Guest Bed Room, and I was just about done for the day. Not finished painting, but tired and ready to quite for the time being. I thought, "Hmm... Horrible paint smell, reeking up the house, and all I want is a nice cigar to keep me company while I paint. I'll even paint for an extra hour, just to justify it." So I'm painting away, and smoking a Monte #2... Just enjoying the day off and peace and quite. My wife was going to be out for the rest of the day, and I could smoke my cigar, paint the room, and the paint would cover up my little "bend" of the rules. Besides, it's not like I was slacking off, smoking in the living room, or smoking in bed. Just passing the time.

I was wrong. I was breaking the rules, and about to get busted.

Less than an inch into my cigar I hear the security system beep. Unless I was being robbed, I was busted. So I'm running around the top floor of my house (3) with the wife on the bottom, and probably coming up. I was going to head for the bathroom and ditch the Monte there, but the plastic was in the way of the bedroom door, and the smoke would surely go into the hall if I tried to go out. I had the window open to clear the fumes and smoke, but the screen was a blockade to my ditch. With her comming up the last flight of stairs, I saw the open paint can, and decided it was my only way out. I shoved the Monte into a nearly full can of "Mist Blue" and crossed my fingers. She walked into the room, and commented on how much I had gotten done. She then bothered to say "And I thought I was going to find you in the office smoking cigars and the bedroom half done." I could tell she had me busted, but was going to let it slide. In my proudest moment of arrogance I said right back; "Honey, I can always smoke a cigar after I'm finished."

After she "left me to finish it up," I pulled my poor Monte from the bucket. It was a beautiful shade of blue, and completly wasted. From then on I don't even try to bend the rules, I'm just glad I didn't have to explain what ruined most of a gallon of "Mist Blue." For some reason I accidentally purchased a gallon to much that is in my garage as "touch up paint," should I ever need it. Smile[/b]


robustops
Many many moons ago (20 years or so) I was at a week long contemplative retreat deep in the mountains of NM. I had attended many of these retreats surrounded in silence contemplating the lint in my naval. These retreats are held in by the strictest guidelines imaginable; every minute of everyday you follow a detailed routine. Up at 3:30 am to bed around 10:30 pm chanting, walking, cleaning, working and of course, contemplating. The only free time you had is about 20 to 30 minutes a day shortly after lunch. About 4 days into this day retreat I feel the urge. I spend my time deep in contemplation unlike the others who are their to contemplate the deep meaning of the universe. I am lost in thought of the few cigars I brought with me to smoke with my fellow brethren at the close of this retreat as we have done many times before. What do I have in my mini traveldor. Oh lets see H Upman, Excalibur III, Nat Sherman Gotham, Fonseca 898 and others I donít recall at this time (obviously my taste have changed). 4 days turn into 5 and my 7 cigar a day habit is raging, in my head, in my bones every where I look I see something that reminds of the sticks I have stored away under my bunk in the dorm. I canít take it! On day 6 I canít take it any more. Shortly after lunch when most everyone is taking a quick nap I grab the Fonseca 898 and head for a wooded area down by the stream. I make a complete ritual of smelling it, looking at it, cutting it just so, pulling my lighter from my pocket sleeve I slowly heated the foot and then lighting with the care given to pinning a babyís diaper. I lean back against a rock by the babbling of the Jemez River in the late fallís crisp air. I take my first drag holding, holding the smoke in my mouth ever so slowly exhaling. The birds are chirping the breeze is gentle and fresh. About halfway through I am in bliss when a sound of splashing water startles me. Oh Shit! Somebody is coming! Fucking Shit! Itís that young monk out to do a little fly fishing. If he catches me I will be in deep shit. I look upstream to see him moving slowly in my direction. I got to toss this perfectly good cigar and I got to toss it now. But where? It is fall the ground is covered in dry leaves and grass, I sure as hell donít what to burn down the forest. If I toss it in the river he may see me do it.

No time think, I work up a mouth full of spit wetting my fingers touching the tip of the cigar quickly trying to put it out, itís out good, shit here he comes I stick the cigar in my pocket sleeve just as he notices me. He nods and continues to fish. I get up and head back to the dorm there is still at least ten to fifteen minutes left maybe I can catch a nap. I get back a flop down on my bunk, you get very use to take these little catnaps and you would be amazed how easy it is to fall asleep.

Once again I am startled. This time by other students yelling something, my heads kind of groggy and my eyes canít seem to see clearly. Oh Shit! The room is full of smoke the old mattress I am on is smoldering. I guess my cigar was not out but burned through the sleeve and into the mattress. Someone yanks me by me feet off the mattress bang goes my head on the concrete floor. Ouch that hurt. Another monk steps on me attempting to arrest the flames. Flames appear on the curtain quickly the flames spread engulfing the room. Smoke filled the air, the heat was unbearable I crawled outside to join the others in amazement as we watch the dorms burn.
Fortunately the fire station was directly next door and they where able to contain the fire to just that one dorm room.
My traveldor was a total loss.

Well needless to say it did not take long before they figured out what had happen and to put it politely I was never invited back.

Archimark1
It was one of those near-death experiences that looked almost graceful to the innocent bystander.

It had been a tough weekend, and when I say tough I mean in a tough-on-my-liver sort of way a long-lost buddy of mine had rolled into Chico (a college town a few hours away from me) and rising to the challenge, I had driven up to meet him. The next three days were sort of a Technicolor blur that only comes from chain-smoking, too-little sleep, too much alcohol and a series of chemically induced psychotic episodes.

We found that, if you start with the right mind-set and certain free moral attitude, it was very possible to work your way all the way across the town of Chico never really leaving a party. It was a constant cycle of compress-decompress, sweaty-coed-loud-music-heavy-drinking-party, retreat to a grass knoll for a smoke break, move to the next loud party, retreat to another grass knoll for a smoke break, repeat ad infinitumÖ

Things we learned;
Sprinklers on most public lawns turn on at 5am.
Puking directly on top of a keg is a quick way to get kicked out of a party.
You don't need to speak the same language as the hosts (or the other guests) of the party to enjoy yourself.
Singing "bye-bye miss american pie" at the top of your lungs is another way to get kicked out of a party.
Being alone, and saying "what do you faggots want?" to a fiver of drunk frat boys is a quick way to get your ass kicked.
Sprinklers on most public lawns turn on at 5am.
Aaaaaaaand coffee and french fries in a perfectly good breakfast at 3am...

All of which brings me to my moment of clarity.

After three days,,, well 72 hours, a day wasn't really a measure of time in this world, I had bid my good friend adieu, with the standard promises to call and write that never seem to pan out in the real world, and I was in the weary process of driving my give-me-a-ticket-red mini-truck home to my dark, empty apartment. Not that I noticed, but it was (again) about 3 am and the only other folks on the road were red-eyed travelers like myself, truck drivers and the odd jack rabbit dancing in the headlights of my little truck.

I had saved one cigar for the ride home.

I was about an hour and a half into a three hour drive and I was tired, I mean glazed-eyes, head-nodding, seeing-things-that weren't-there tired. Attempting to combat this, I had fired up a big fat toro cigar, turned the stereo to some sinuous music that suited my demented mood and turned it up loud, and rolled down the windows on my little truck. This was my mistake.

After about 3/4 of the CD, an inch and a half of cigar, and 15 head snaps I made the decision to pull over and take a brief rest before making the last leg of the drive home. Almost on cue came a roadside signpost denoting a rest area. The thing about rest stops in California is that they really want you to slow down when you enter them, so they do things like rumble strips and force the road into 90 turns to get into parking. I drive fast, I admit it, it is just something I do.

So here I am nodding off tired, driving too fast into the exit to a roadside rest, hit the rumble strip, knocks the one inch ash off my cigar and down the leg of my shorts, distracts me juuuuust long enough to miss the 90 degree turn, but not long enough to NOT jerk the wheel just enough to make my fat lowrider tires jump the curb, hydroplane on the freshly overwatered grass, and do a perfect muddy 360, in front of an elderly couple standing outside of their Cadillac a few feet away, jump the next curb and re-enter the freeway at almost the same speed that I left it.

I was pretty much awake for the rest of the drive.

It took some field surgery and a lot of bran to get my fingernails out of the plastic of the steering wheel and the seat-vinyl out of the pucker of my ass. But I made it homeÖ.



<<I can't help myself..>>

I was wondering if it would be my boss who would come in to identify my body?

I'm not much of a golfer, my experience with golf was limited to bouncing golf balls off the skunks at the local sand course, or the occasional drunken cart rental where the round was measured by the number of beers instead of the number of strokes. I have always had an entirely too casual observance of what most folks call "rules" anyway, so golf wasn't really my game.

However my company holds an annual golf tournament, and there was the whole "testicles in the punchbowl" incident at the last christmas party, I felt I owed it to them to participate in the latest golf tournament.

Due to the very real possibility of one of my "drives" injuring any number of innocent people, I decided that my best role would be that of support, the company, in their infinite wisdom, gave me the weighty responsibility of driving the company drink cart. Fresh air, sunshine, drinks, and a chance to spend the bulk of the day smoking fine cigars really appealed to me, so I eagerly accepted the task.

It was probably the evil thoughts that were my undoing.

Give me a shotgun and I am happy. Hunting is where my heart and passion lies, which is why I have always had a sick fascination with golf-course ducks and especially geese. I remain convinced to this day that self-defense should be a perfectly legal reason for harvesting a golf-course goose with a 9-iron, and when I get up the nerve to challenge that in court, I anticipate a very full freezer at home.

I had happily drank my way through a 12-er of Beer (hey it was a hot day!) smoked my way through one CAO Black Torpedo, a nice aged RASS, a Fuente Short Story and was a quarter way in to a Ghurka Centurion when tragedy struck.

I doubt that I was the first person to ever drink on a golf course. I am willing to wager that I was also not the first person to ever operate an electric vehicle in said condition, which is why it truly amazes me that there were no safety rails or aviodance devices on the edge of the pedestrian bridge over which I was quickly (and unsteadily) guiding my beer-laden golf cart.

I am not sure who hit the ball, but in retrospect, it is amazing the chaos one little plastic orb can generate.

My attention was first piqued by the hollow clunk-sound that I (as a hacker) know to be the sound of a white plastic ball skipping off a rock. I turned my head just in time to see a white blur aaaaalmost skip off the bill of my hat, just in time to bit the end off of my cigar, have the cigar drop in my lap, have the ball skip off the underside of the sunshade of my golf cart, have the ball continue on to smack one of the big fat geese sunning itself in a flock of it's fellows, have the WHOLE flock take off (directly across the path of the cart) aaaaand have me (trying to avoid the geese, juggling a lit cigar with my testicles) drive right the hell over the edge of the pedestrian bridge and in to the creek below..

You would think that, the batteries being in the rear of most carts, that the rear end of the cart would stabilize it as I left the bridge. I guess that something on the underside of the cart caught because it spun around on the edge of that bridge and flipped over almost like the hinge on a gate and the cart (with me holding on for dear life) and landed on the roof in just enough water to cushion my fall. At this time I decided to take a moment and there stupidly while my travel humidor (and most of the boyant items in my cart) bobbed away on the gentle current.

So I bought thaaat cartÖ..


eric_f

OK, so I'm going to post what happened today....

There's a girl that lives in the unit upstairs from me. She has been making advances on me for some time, but I keep brushing them off. She's good looking, just not my type. I go outside to light up my first Quintero ever and I am reading Man On Fire, thanks to one90proof. Anyhow after I'm about 2/3 through it she comes down the stairs and approaches me. She asks how I'm doing, and as always, it's SSDD (same sh!t, different day). We talk for a second and she asks me if I've done anything strange in the laundry room. (Our complex has a laundry facility) I knew this was instanly going downhill. She had proceeded to tell me how she had put her clothes in the dryer and gone to class. When she had come back, all her underwear was gone. She told me angrily that "She didn't know I was like that."

After that I had no choice but to put the cigar down, otherwise I probably would have swallowed it right there. It basically left me speechless. All I could say was, "I have more respect for women than that."

Talk about guilt trip! Still, all the underwear getting stolen, that's rich. Obviously, I didn't do it, but a very crappy rumor could get started and I think it's because I don't pay attention to her. Rolling On The Floor Laughing In all of the jaw dropping action, I forgot about my cigar and let it rest in peace.

~Eric
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