Today I went to Cousin’s Cigar over on the east side to pick up a couple of cigars for my business partner and myself, for no other reason other than I felt like having a cigar.
I mean, really, what’s not to enjoy about a cigar? You put a large brown log in your mouth, light it on fire, and stink for an hour or so as you slowly burn it into ashes. You’re usually doing it around other like-minded individuals who enjoy playing with fire and generally embrace the concept of being offensive to the majority of society. Those are my people, and having a cigar with them is a great way of communing.
Some people like to psychoanalyze those who would prefer to have a cigar, calling on Freud to interpret the action of smoking a cigar as in some way expressing a latent homoerotic side to an individual. But as Freud didn’t say (despite what people want to believe), sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. And even if it isn’t, the dime store psychoanalysis is no longer interesting, relevant, and it doesn’t make you seem smart. It makes you seem like a hack that likes to spout clichés.