Every year on October 31st, adults party and dress up like fools while the kiddies pilfer sugar laden confections from the community. What a great concept.

This has always been very cool time of year to me and the entire tradition behind Halloween brings back very fond memories as a kid. When you were really little, mom dressed you in those crappy store bought deals, complete with plastic mask and rubber band. But around ten years old you put great effort into creating your own costumes, and scouring the neighborhood for treats with your group of boyhood pals.

My first trick or treating was in the early 60’s, when people gave out Milky Way bars that were three feet long, succulent homemade candy apples, popcorn balls, fresh baked cupcakes, bags of candy corn, and Hershey Bars as big as license plates. Man, those really were the good ol’ days. Then some demented sociopaths started putting razorblades in the apples and Ajax in the Pixi-stix straws, putting an end to the homemade goodies. As my mom used to say, “Those sickos!”

We all wore our costumes to school and had a kick-ass party, then raced home to hit the streets with pillow sack in hand and a hankerin’ for sweets! I remember walking for hours on end, hitting every door with their lights left on, and soaping up the doors of the scrooges who wouldn’t answer their bell. Then there were the suckers who were out and about, but left a giant bowl of candy, along with a hand-written sign that read: “Please Take One.” Suuuuuuuuure… That would be like leaving Rosie O’donnell in charge of watching the bagged lunches at the GLAD parade.

On the origin of this day, Wikipedia states: Halloween originated from the Pagan festival Samhain, celebrated among the Celts of Ireland and Great Britain. Irish and Scottish immigrants carried versions of the tradition to North America in the nineteenth century. The Festival of Halloween is a celebration of the end of the fertile period of the Celtic Goddess Eiseria. It is said that when Eiseria reaches the end of her fertile cycle the worlds of the dead and the living interlap. Halloween did not become a holiday in the United States until the 19th century, where lingering Puritan tradition restricted the observance of many holidays. American almanacs of the late 18th and early 19th centuries do not include Halloween in their lists of holidays. The transatlantic migration of nearly two million Irish following the Irish Potato Famine (1845–1849) finally brought the holiday to the United States.

Usually a holiday like Halloween evokes great memories of trick or treating, but unfortunately I vividly remember my sixth grade year collecting candy with our notorious Nazi neighbor named Norbert. (See yesterday’s blog on Mischief Night for the details on this boyhood bastard.) God, that kid was such a vile prick. At eleven years old, while the entire gang is dressed in such classic garb as superheroes, hobos, commandos, football stars, and astronauts, Norbert, in all his Aryan youth dresses up like der Führer himself, Adolph f@#king Hitler. He greased his hair sideways, (not that the creep required the extra grease) made a magic marker mustache, wore an old trench coat, and of course, created red and black swastika armbands, displaying them proudly around each of his sleeves.

I kid you not when I tell you that half of the folks who answered their doors would not give that little cretin any candy. And with each house that said no, a red swastika was spray painted on their mailbox. One very old Jewish lady took a look at the vermin of a German and started screaming in Yidish as she slammed the door in his face. This really started getting out of hand and none of us wanted to go down for the kraut. But at that very moment a police car pulled up with an officer asking if any of us knew who was painting mailboxes in the neighborhood. And… just like out of a Little Rascals episode, our entire group of kids took three steps back, leaving the wannabe chancellor of the fatherland standing there with a half a can of Testors in one hand and his guilty little pecker in the other. God, it was a beautiful thing as the boys in blue shoved our little Hitler into the squad car and drove off. 

Tonight, friends and family of Houdini will again attempt to contact the great magician…goblins, vampires, aliens and princesses will knock on your door…jack-o-lanterns will be smashed…millions of pounds of chocolate will be consumed…. And hopefully, Norbert has been since deported.

I’ll be on my porch with a big ol’ Belinda Black www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm in hand.

Seems that this evening goes by different names throughout the country. Where I live in north-western New Jersey it’s known as Goosey Night. Growing up in north-eastern Jersey outside of NYC it was referred to as Cabbage Night. Other popular names are Devil’s Night, Soap Night, and Doorbell Night.

When I was that age, only the cool kids or the bad kids got to roam the neighborhood on this wicked night. I remember when I was still too young to partake in the ritual, waking up in the morning was almost like Christmas as the trees were ensconced in toilet paper and windows were soaped with vulgarities I wasn’t yet familiar with. But as I became a little bit cooler and a little bit badder, my buds and I prowled the community equipped with TP, soap, eggs, and of course shaving cream, which had multiple uses – the best being if you caught a nerd or unpopular kid bandying about, a Barbasol facial coupled with an egg shampoo always made for a rousing time. (Kids can be such bastids.)

Of course there was always that one really rotten punk in the group who went the extra mile to spray paint the neighbor’s dog or urinate in someone’s mailbox. Our misguided and troubled yout was Norbert, an Aryan little son-of-a-bitch who had a penchant for making people just hate his guts. He was the local bully who made a habit of picking on anyone smaller than he and destroying property that didn’t have his parents name on it. He was the prick who performed the most evil deeds and got the rest of us in deep shineola. I know this may seem a bit childish and it’s a good 30 years ago or so…but… Hey Norbert – F@#K YOU! No really, F@#K YOU, you no good hateful dirtbag.

God, that felt so cathartic.

Anyway… I’ve got to let you in on the ABSOLUTE best prank EVER committed on this most holiest of nights. As a pre-teen I lived in Garden apartments with the four doors across. My dad was a high-school teacher in the same town we lived, which definitely caused a ruckus or two during his teaching career. One Cabbage Night (as it was known there) our doorbell rang furiously, as did our three adjoined neighbors. As we all went down the stairs and opened our doors, we were greeted by the surprise of a lifetime – a big white porcelain toilet bowl which was blocking our entrance. Some clever little sons-of-bitches – without being seen or heard – somehow got an entire toilet bowl on our porch. My dad knew this was the prank of a student but there was no DNA to identify the culprit…or was there?

The entire block heard the commotion and with minutes everyone gathered ‘round to see the Zarzecki’s new, shiney, front porch ornament. Who could have done it?…where did it come from?…how did they get it here?… were the questions buzzing through the crowd – until our next-door neighbor, old Helen Bigbee decided to make a bold and courageous move. She leaned over to lift the toilet lid and let out a shrieking “Oh my Gawd!” as the cover slammed back down. With everyone wanting to know what was wrong, old Helen just blurted out, “There’s a huge turd in there! And it’s fresh too, cuz I think it’s still steaming!”

Sure enough, the pranksters had gone that all-too creative extra mile, pinching a loaf the size of football in our new front-stoop display. The gift that kept on giving had half of the crowd in hysterics and half of the crowd yakking their meatloaf dinners. I don’t really remember my parents reactions, but my dad still thinks it’s pretty goddamned funny to this very day.

So for tonight, my good BOTL’s, keep on your porch lights, stow away the mums and the jack-o-lanterns, and make that sure no porcelain fixtures are coming your way. For tonight is Mischief Night…

Bwahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!

I know a lot of people felt this World Series was lame, but when you’re hanging with the locals, you cannot help but get swept up in it. Everything and everywhere you go is “Redsox” and you can’t blame them. Their almost century long curse was lifted two years ago and the party continues with this year’s crew. And the Pats look like one of the most dominant teams in NFL history. But then, of course, there’s the Ramapo Saints, Pee Wee A team out of Rockland County, New York.

A hockey tournament may be fun and exciting, but it absolutely beats the living crap out of you. The drive for the family was four hours each way and the team played five games in 3 days – 3 games on Sunday (yesterday.) We walked many miles around the north end of Boston, ate tons of food, stayed up late enjoying our beverages of choice, and got very little sleep. I’m writing this Monday morning in a semi-comatose state as we didn’t get home until mid-night last night. I made myself a steaming hot pot of coffee, but said f@#k it and just poured it straight down my shorts. Yeah, that woke the ol’ boys up.

Saturday night was a real treat as we went to a very nice Italian dinner, then headed to The Havana House, a cigar bar about a mile up the street from our hotel, in Northborough, Mass. I never expected to find a real live cigar bar in this quiet rural area but baby, this was just what the doctor ordered! This quaint, smokey den of pleasure was complete with leather couches, big screen TV’s and a terrific selection of libations and stogies. I started with a Dewers’s 12 on ice paired with the always nice Punch Double Corona www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm followed by a very tasty CAO Italia www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm while I joined my brother’s of the leaf in rooting for their hometown “Sawx.”  As a Mets fan, I reminded them of 1986, Bill Buckner and all, but they forgave my ignorant faux pas as the Guinness flowed and the cheering got louder. Make sure to check out my new friends at the Havana House @ www.havanahouseonmain.com

Oh… Did I forget to mention Britney? The day before our trip, I purchased a new Samsung phone with navigation. Amazingly, it has full GPS capability – directions to everywhere on earth, maps, and of course, that sultry voice that gets you exactly where you need to go – ergo Britney. Turn right in point five miles she says… stay in left lane, she says… and when you aren’t paying attention and blow by your exit, she says she’s “recalculating the route” and my heart goes a twitter. That bitch is crazy. For those of you who have GPS, you fully understand my new-found excitement. For those of you who don’t, this falls under the category of “guy toy” heaven. Why Britney?… because my daughter finds her tone highly annoying, just like the ex-Ms. Federline, herself. But I find her to be my new hottie driving companion who I just can’t live without. If only she barked out erotic commands, I swear I’d never leave my goddamned Jeep.

And in case you’re even remotely interested…The Saints went 3-0, making the playoff round of competition on Sunday. Down 1-0 nothing for the entire game, the coach pulled our goalie and with the extra attacker we scored with 47 seconds remaining to tie the game. Then a minute and a half into OT we scored the game winner, putting us in the championship game. It was simply amazing. Then, down 3-1 in the second period of the big showdown, we scored two goals to tie… and again in overtime, a long wrist shot from the top of the face off circles beat the opposing goalie and my son’s team captured the entire tournament – something we never expected in our wildest imaginations. Wow, to watch your kid succeed like that is truly beyond words.

So, even though we’re exhausted and weary, the memory of Beantown is a pleasant one… and I now have Ms. Britney all to myself.

“Recalculating route.”   Ooooo-ga!

Later,
Tommy Z.

JR Cigar Blog With the Zman

Some kind of strange and unexplainable primal forces are at work when the cleavage is exposed. When a man’s eyes make contact, our breath turns to short little panting noises as a pleasant warmth begins to develop in the nether region. Remember the Seinfeld episode where George stares at the NBC executive’s daughter’s low hanging fruit? Jerry says they are like giant and powerful magnets to the eyes with an effect much like Kryptonite has upon Superman.

Once again, it cannot be explained by mere rationale, but when the globes are in orbit, our eyes MUST make contact. Whether they are small and firm, or large, round and jiggly, it does not matter…we HAVE TO look! We HAVE TO. It’s like some unwritten law in the ancient records, scribed on the walls of the Mayan Temples. The luscious valley between the mighty peaks grips a man’s being much like the Sirens who seduced Homer in the Iliad and the Odyssey. Its spell is intoxicating driving a normal man to the very brink of childish behavior, not to mention – utter stupidity.

But we males have become masters of our craft. We have studied this vertical space of flesh and nothingness and have learned how to catch that sacred glimpse of nirvana at the most perfect time. We look the female species in the eyes, we smile as we talk, nodding as if we are actually listening to a single word the shrew is saying. It’s a peek of the holy grails that we are after and nothing but nothing will stop our valiant quest. We use cunning and guile to move their attention elsewhere – and the moment their eyes turn away, OUR eyes dive in for the kill.

“Oh, look… that kitten must be lost.” We say with an innocent yet sinister glow.

“Oh, where?” she says, as her head moves about.

“Over yonder, in the bushes” you point, as your pupils all but burn a hole into her chest.

“Where?” she asks, “I don’t see a… um, what are you looking at?”

SNAGGED! You have been snagged! She begins to change the subject while awkwardly tugging her blouse upwards. As she continues to talk, you sit there like a fool – a large pulsating letter “L” is emblazoned upon your forehead as the beauty that once was is buried six miles deep in cotton and polyester fibers.

This previous action on the part of the female, I do not understand, as it confuses the male species here and abroad. Let me explain. A woman wears a shirt or sweater that by her choice, is low cut, as her ta-tas are in full display for all the world to gander. They’re swingin’ high and low, loose and free, giving the male populous the joy we so richly deserve. Yet the moment our woman – this teasing harlot – notices where our eyes are fixed, she folds her arms or grabs the nearest Cosmo to cover up those mountains of grandeur. UNFAIR I say!

I, the Zman, speak on behalf of heterosexual men everywhere on this wretched planet. Women, take heed. When you “CHOOSE” to wear a low cut top that exposes your upper region, DO NOT act so alarmed when we men are gazed upon your earthly beauty. Why do you wear such attire if you do not wish for us to stare? Why do you purposely dress so provocatively, yet cover up the moment we sneak a peek? I’ll be honest, ladies… since my early manhood this phenomena has really irked me to no end. You put the sale rack up on display, but when an interested shopper passes by, the curtains are drawn and the shop is closed. Again, UNFAIR I say!

I have to admit that this very horrid plight happened to me only today and I could not go another moment without speaking up for my fellow man. I was taken aback as my character was unfairly thrown into question. This was rude, degrading, and unjust in every way.

I’m telling you, there really was a lost kitten bushes. I swear.

But people, I think you’ll agree that there is no job on the face of this earth as lauded and equally bogus as your tv weatherman.

“I can’t believe it’s raining! The weatherman just said two days ago that it was supposed to be sunny!” How many times have you uttered those words? Guess what, bro? The weatherman doesn’t have a clue. He’s an overpaid stuffed suit, who with 20 billion dollars in fancy shmancy Doppler radar can’t even tell you what’s happening outside his own window for crissakes.

Meteorologist, my fat ass! That’s a pretty fancy title for, “I think this is what’s going to happen over the next five days – but to be totally honest, I’ve got a better shot at telling you who’s going to win the first trifecta at Belmont."

“There’s a cold front coming in from the north.”… yeah, that’s brilliant, go on… “and a warm mass might be sweeping upward from the south,” do tell, Dr. Science… “Which means… uh… I know it must mean something…”  It means you’re a friggin’ empty head they pay a lot of dough to point at a green screen that there’s nothing really on. Imbecile.

Now, I know this is a weird and surely little rant today, but this “weather man” thing has always irked me. He’s always this kind of the playful sort, who the anchors kid with as if he actually holds the keys to their weekend in the Hamptons. “So Jim, will I be nailin’ my bimbo at the beach on Saturday or not? (Chuckle, chickle, fake laugh, snort.)”

The real bottom line is that they are wrong half the time because they simply CAN NOT tell you what the weather will be more than two days out. The five-day forcast is a cruel hoax. “Heading towards the weekend it looks like a beauty.” Which really translates to “The ballgame will be cancelled, no ribs on the barbeque, and no Ashtons www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm or Don Tomas www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm with the boys.”  Hey Sam Champion, I got some sunshine for you right here, fella.

Do you believe you work as hard as you do all week and these clowns actually get paid to peddle their drivel? “It’s 63 degrees out right now…and in a little while it’ll be 65.” A friggin monkey could say that –  except he’d scratch his ass and pick fleas from his skull. But at least you’d be getting a show.

Wikipedia says that meteorology is: the interdisciplinary scientific study of the atmosphere that focuses on weather processes and forecasting. Now years ago that meant they threw a dart at a map and a group of nerds pulled folded up pieces of paper from a hat…

“Mine says six inches of snow tomorrow!”

“Think I should aim higher?”

But nowadays, interdisciplinary scientific study means our heralded weather god flips open his cell phone, looks at the screen and says, “Uh,oh…all that red area shit ain’t good.”

And now, just like with the news anchors, the stations are hiring sultry hotties to gives us the lowdown, complete with impressive weather balloons and all. With their flowing hair, pouty lips, and incredibly snug sweaters, at least you’re able to tell if it’s cold in the studio. And God, don’t start me on the Hispanic channel weather girls. They all look like Shakira, scantily clad and talking a thousand miles an hour.  My daughter asks, “ Dad, why the heck are you watching the weather in Spanish?”

Daddy just wants to hear her say “cumulous clouds” again, honey.

Hey Willard Scott, I think it’s snowing in Uranus.

Later Dudes,
Tommy Z

Jr Cigars Blog With the Zman

Yeah, I do. It’s sucks. It’s boring. And I’m really pissed because nobody’s gettin’ whacked. For those of you who have never watched or followed the Sopranos, this is what life is now like for those of us who lived for the monumental series. Sunday nights without Tony, Carmela, Chris, Paulie, and Silvio just ain’t right.

Maybe you don’t like violence? Maybe you deplore gangsters. Maybe you’re the effeminate type and dig Desperate Houswives? Or maybe you’re just a cheap f@#k who won’t spend the coin for HBO? Whatever the reason, you’ve missed out on some of the finest acting and storylines the television world has ever known. The HBO series, which first aired in January of 1999, has become the most prolific drama in the history of television. In TV Guide’s list of the 50 Greatest Shows All-time, The Sopranos ranks number five, behind four legendary comedies: 1. Seinfeld, 2. Lucy, 3. The Honeymooners, and 4. All in the Family. It’s the highest rated cable series ever, and the only cable-show to win the Emmy for Outstanding Drama Series.

For some weirdo reason, perfectly nice everyday honest hard-working citizens are romantically addicted to the exploits of this brutal and violent crime family. Wonderful, law-abiding citizens worldwide are simply enamoured with Tony Soprano and his cast of goombas.

“How in God’s name can you like that show?” I have been often asked. “Those people are are thieves, bullies, thugs, con men, cheaters, philanderers, alcoholics, drug dealers, and ruthless, cold-hearted murdering psychopaths…yet, you love them? I mean…WTF?”

Again, for those of you who have never watched the series, for some unexplainable and disturbing reason …we could relate to them. SAY WHAT?!  I know that sounds bizarre, but listen to me. The reason that regular everyday folks could relate to these people was because Tony and his family let you into their home and personal family lives. They didn’t live behind iron gates like the Corleones – they lived in suburban northern New Jersey, where mob boss Tony himself strolled down his driveway each and every morning to pick up the Newark Star Ledger. And that is where the brilliance of show creator David Chase comes in. He made them real people with real foibles and phobias. They may be Mafioso by day, but by night they return to their true families and face everyday issues like running a home, raising their kids, investing, paying taxes, dealing with prejudice, and caring for their health. In the past, mobsters were bigger than life as they gunned down their enemies in a blaze of bullets and fire on the silver screen. Tony Soprano visits his son’s guidance counselor, hosts family barbeques, protects his loved ones from a recurring black bear, and drives his daughter to visit a quaint New England college. (But of course while Meadow is visiting the campus, he crosses paths with an ex-mobster in the witness protection program – a guy who ratted – and Tony brutally strangles him with his bare hands. Gotta kill time somehow.

There’s no denying whatsoever that the Sopranos are an abomination – a psychologically disturbed, ethically bankrupt, spiritually void gene pool. But, fans like myself are obsessed with their lives, and we love them unconditionally – as if they were of our own flesh and blood. When nine o’clock struck on Sunday nights and that magical, hypnotic theme song by the band A3 began to play… Bum, ba bum, bum, bum, wa wa wa…”Woke up this morning and got your self a gun…” like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I’d prop up in front of the TV in a semi-lathered state as Tony drove through the Jersey side of the Lincoln Tunnel, lighting his cigar, pulling the Turnpike ticket from the booth, cruising past, Pizzaland, Satriale’s Pork Store, and the rows of refinery tanks in lovely Newark. For the next 60 minutes, you couldn’t help but become are a blood sworn Soprano.

And now…Sunday nights are a bore. No pre-show pasta and canolis. No cigars with red wine. No hearing the F-word sixty-some odd times within an hour. Nobody getting shot, strangled, beaten, flogged, shoveled, maimed or curbed. No dead go-go dancers, burned up racehorses, pony-tailed assassins, or severed heads in a bowling ball bag… nothin’. Just boring ol’ Sunday night, sitting around with the loved ones.

How uncivilized.

Later ya stunad,
Tommy Z.
JR Cigar Blog With the Zman

Hey gavone, I ain’t tru wit you yet! I suggest you rent the Sopranos series on DVD from Season one and watch it straight through like I did. Instead of 8 years, seeing it over a few months gives you a very different perspective. Make sure you set the mood with a nice glass of Amarone, and some great cigars, such as the Sopranos Edition by CAO  www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm and the Frank Vincent Signature Collection  www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm

Since I was a kid, I’ve always been a big fan of the boob-tube. But, of course, when I watched as a youngin’ there were only three major networks filled predominantly with sitcoms and dramas. But now, reality tv has taken its place in history with shows like Survivor, The Osbournes, American Idol, and the Apprentice, where there are no actors or scripts, just real people acting and doing as real people act and do.

Since you’re all aware of my new hit show, Straight Eye for the Queer Guy, I’ve decided to develop a boatload of pitches for the new tv season. Just creating the concept for a show can earn you mega-bucks, so count me in as the new Sherwood Schwartz. Thus, I present thee with: Zman’s shows to look out for late this fall (and heed my warning, as I have checked any and all political correctness at the proverbial door)…

Little People Poker – Reality, USA Network, Fridays
A family of midgets gets swept up in the Texas Hold ‘em craze. Watch the hi jinx begin as these petite poker pros play in small-town tournaments everywhere! Dad Phil, also suffering from Tourette’s Syndrome, lets the expletives fly when he can’t reach the goddamned chips! – Vile adult language and awkward tiny moments. All in, ya little bastids!

Extreme Do-Over!: Fix my Home, You POS, Edition! – Reality, ABC, Wednesdays
People whose houses that have been completely f@#ked up by TY Pennington, take the spike-haired, OCD patient to court. – Lots of white trash and po’ black folk who swear profusely. Gratuitous bitch-slapping. Move dat bus, beetch!

Desperate Cavemen – Comedy, ABC, Saturdays
A group of cavemen who live on a suburban cul-de-sac deal with today’s most gripping issues, ie: starting fires, walking upright, and whether it’s still acceptable to drag your wife by her hair. A dead caveman, who was once a resident of the community, narrates. – Gratuitous grunting and club violence. Explicit wall drawings.

Kathy Lee Gifford Variety Hour - Variety, ABC, Fridays
Already canceled.

Chop Shop – Reality TV, The Learning Channel, Mondays
Misguided youths from the streets of Newark, NJ, steal cars then chop them up for fun and profit. Ice Tea and Soulja Boy make guest appearances. – The word Nigga is used over 18,000 times.

CSI Provincetown - Drama, CBS, Fridays
A rash of mysterious murders breaks out in the quaint New England town, yet the special crime unit keeps finding the same cause of death: Light bulbs, door knobs, and small rodents. – Disturbing visuals and latex.

What’s Rosie Been Eatin? - Realty/Comedy – FOX, Thurdays
Equipped with night vision glasses and three Navy Seals, Jamie Kennedy goes on a 2am search through Rosie O’donnell’s garbage to see what the rotund lesbian’s been eating. Forty-two Chalupas, 13 boats of cheese n’ gravey fries, and a bottle of Diet Rite grape for lunch. Seems that dinner consists of 400 tons of live plankton.

Tranny 911 - Reality TV, FOX, Tuesdays
Goldman Sachs VP by day, tricked out tranny by night, Terry Sharpe is the Prada prancing queen of Wall Street. His mission: Help other loathsome transvestites with everything from self-esteem issues, fashion tips, and finding his G-spot! – John Travolta makes a special guest appearance. – Not for people who find this kind of crap disgusting.

Dems Eats! - Reality TV, Food Network, Fridays
What does an ex-NHL goaltender, a Zen Buddhist High Priest, and a drummer in a French Canadian thrash metal band have in common? Absoluetly f#$king nothing! But the three try to co-exist in peace and harmony as co-owners in a Tim Horton’s Donut Shop. Filmed in Mississauga, Ontario, it’s quite apparent that these people think anything is funny…eh? – Guest appearances by Patrick Roy, Geddy Lee, and the Dali Lama. – Bad acting and annoying Canadian pro-nunce-e-a-shuns.

Fecal Matters - Reality Game Show, TLC, Wednesdays
Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs hosts this hour-long fudge-fest as contestants are lowered into giant litter boxes with one goal in mind: Find the Golden Turd! Sure beats playin’ in the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese – and cleaner too! – Grotesque situations, nausea and profuse vomiting.

That 90’s Show! - Comedy, FOX, Mondays
Please, God…no.

And last but not least…

Torture the Smoke Nazi – Reality / Comedy, USA Network, Tuesdays
Members of the cigar-loving community, chain Nancy Pelosi, Chuck Schumer, and the Belmont, California City council together, then blow thick and viscous smoke from their favorite stogies into their captives’ unconstitutional breathing passages. Watch ‘em gag and choke as they fight for their corrupt political lives… hardy, har, har! The Punch Champion www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm, Camacho Corojo www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm, and the Bolivar Toro www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm  make cameo appearances.

Hope you’ll be watching this cavalcade of low-brow crapola,
Tommy Z.

The Nation shocked the Tribe last night with an ass-pounding 11 – 2 victory, sending the BoSox to the World Series for the second time in just four years. What was more shocking is that Cleveland was only one victory away from going to the big dance, but allowed Boston to come back and win three straight – outscoring the Injuns by a margin of 30 – 5 runs in those final three games. Three straight – that is just plain horrible. (not as horrible as the Yankees blowing a 3-0 lead to the Sox back in 2004, but horrible none the less.)

The score was actually 3-2 in the seventh inning when the Red Sox bats went utterly nuckin futz, capped of by a mammoth homerun by Youkilis (in the eighth) smack off the giant coke bottle above the Green Monster in left-center field. Man, what a friggn’ shot – and what a friggin’ reaming to end this game.

The Sox even threw two rookie pitchers, but the Indians just choked, which included several bungling errors – the worst when two Cleveland fielders bonked skulls “Three Stooges” style chasing after a fly ball. All that was missing was the “Nyuk, nyuk, nyuk, woo, woo, woo.” Downright fuggin’ embarrassing – puddinheads.

The grande faux pas of the game came in the top of the seventh when the ultra-fast Kenny Lofton (on second) rounded the bag at third, but third base coach Joel Skinner threw his hands up to stop Lofton, who was no doubt about to tie the game at three. After the play, Tribe manager Eric Wedge gave Skinner one of those “WTF, Skinhead?” looks from the dugout. Then, to pour a crate of salt in the Indians wounds, with only one out, Casey Blake (Grizzly Adams beard and all) hit into an abominable double play to end the inning. Hey Joel, the only signs you’ll be in charge of from now on are the one’s you tape up in the window for the combo-burger special. Capeesh?

This really was an absolute nightmare for Cleveland, who hasn’t won a World Series since 1948. On the contrary, Boston has won their twelfth American League pennant. I think most of Cleveland’s problem stems from that half-retarded injun who graces their baseball caps. Don Imus used to refer to the logo as a smilin’ Uncle Tom. Hard to believe the P.C. brigade hasn’t forced the organization to kill that horse-toothed, feather-headed jackass.

After the game Red Sox players celebrated with the traditional champagne uncorking (Of course they would have caught hell if they were smoking celebratory cigars -– but dousing each other with alcohol is an OK message to send to the kiddies.) And you want to hear from the stars like Josh Beckett, winner of the series MVP, but no, they’ve gotta award the League trophy to the team suits, who babble and cry like they just played their balls off. I hate that contrived crap.

Special kudos goes to Coco Crisp who made the final out of the game, chasing a ball to deep center and crashing into the fence at full speed. Crisp literally scraped himself off the warning track and hobbled down to his teammates who were celebrating at the pitcher’s mound.

Next up…the Colorado Rockies who have won an astounding 21 of their last 22 games. Plus with 4" of snow in Denver, this could be a strange World Series. I personally think the long layoff will hurt the Rocks, as teams often come into a series stale after a sweep. But then again, I eat pinapple jello with strips of Spam in it, so why would anyone with an ounce of redeeming value listen to a word I say?

And last, something I think is immensely important… is FOX announcer Jeannie Zelasko hot or is that nose just too funky for me to fully commit myself to a lengthy sexual relationship? A real quandary for the Zman. I mean I’m so undecided on whether I’d call for the ol’ double switch or not. Ah, who the hell am I kidding? I could make a romantic night out of a can of Neetsfoot Oil and a worn out catcher’s mitt. Yes, I’m garbage and scum…I know, I know. Thanks for your warm concern.

Regards All,
Tommy Z.

“We’re lobbying for all the children”  – Nancy Pelosi  

Relentless bitch.

A mere thirteen votes is all the politico knuckleheads needed to override GW’s veto of the SCHIP bill. But it ain’t gonna happen, my puro puffing companions. Love him or hate him, the unpopular Prez came through for everyone in the cigar world, stating emphatically that the “misguided legislation” was defeated. He continued saying that government officials "weren’t dialed in" (to the plans) "and I don’t know why. But they just ran the bill, and I made it clear we weren’t going to accept it."

Most righteous.

CNN.com reports: House Republican leaders have complained that Democrats postponed the override attempt for two weeks to use the issue for political advantage. A coalition of labor and advocacy groups had been pounding Republicans with a nearly $1 million television ad campaign on cable networks featuring children who have received benefits from the program.

Agenda driven bastards.

North Carolina Rep. Mike McIntyre, who referred to his district as "Tobacco Road," made it clear that the debate "is no longer about the tobacco tax, but really about whether we’re going to help our children."

There is a God.

This calls for a celebration of some kind…

The Zman has picked out a few celebratory cigars to applaud our smokin’ victory.

Romeo Y Julieta Habana Reserve – Belicoso
>   www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm

Country of Origin: Honduras     Medium to Full Bodied
Size: 6 x 52     Wrapper: Nic     Binder: Nic     Filler: Nic/Hon
These babies just hit the market and I have smoked several already. What a wonderful, rich cigar that boasts an oily, supple wrapper and a meticulous roll. The draw is just perfect and the flavor is very woody and hearty. It’s kind of like a freakin’ Romeo ramped up on jungle juice! The verdict: I love this new cigar. A definite BUY… it is very flavorful and the aroma is captivating (unlike my overflowing hamper. I know – ew.)

San Cristobal – Monumento

Country of Origin: Nicaragua     Full Bodied
Size: 7.25  x 49     Wrapper: Nic     Binder: Nic     Filler: Nic
I had one of these last night (during Rutgers sweet victory over South Florida.) Made by Ashton, this is a hell of a nice cigar…very oily, very supple, very dark (Sounds like a chick I shared rum runners with in the Bahamas.) The draw is perfect and the burn was good. As far as the taste: Right off the bat it reminded me VERY MUCH of the Padron Anniversario 1964 Maduro – I really thought it had a very similar profile – sweet and spicy. It’s a complex gar that smoked terrific two-thirds the way, but didn’t finish well for me. Thought it flattened out at the end. Maybe it was the big size. (Note to self: must try the other sizes.) The verdict: The upside – Tremendous full flavors throughout. A classic and beautiful Nicaraguan. The downside – It ain’t cheap coming in around the $10 – $11 mark.

Martinez New York – Empire    
>  www.jrcigars.com/index.cfm

Country of Origin: United States     Medium Bodied
Size: 6 x 54     Wrapper: ECSU     Binder: Nic     Filler: Nic/Dom/Hon
Martinez Cigars has been hand-rolling cigars in New York City since 1974. Perched in the shadow of the Empire State Building, this family has worked hard to perfect its newest and most flavorful line. Oily and square pressed, the cigar just has a great feel in your hand. The roll and the draw are terrific and the taste is very different and very interesting. With the mix of filler tobacco from three different countries, it is smooth, but also has a nice kick to it. The flavor kind of has a woody/leathery component. And every one I’ve had (a dozen or so) smoke beautifully right down the end. The verdict: This boutique brand could really become your everyday smoke. They are different – which is good – and I really like them a lot. In the words of Rodney Dangerfield in Caddy Shack: Buy, buy, buy!

That’s it for another week. I’ll keep you up to date on SCHIP news as it happens.

Astalavista baby.
Tommy Z.

Jr Cigar Blog With the Zman