The moment has finally come. For those of you who’ve been with us since we first launched here on wordpress (which amounts to me, Kent, and our parents), you may remember that we originally called it “The Talking Mirror’s Transitional Home.” That’s because we never intended to be on wordpress.com permanently. And finally, thanks to some generous help from our good friend Isaac, we have a legitimate website at a legitimate domain: www.thetalkingmirror.com

So, if you’re prone to reminiscing or romanticizing the past, you can keep coming back here to the wordpress.com site. Maybe browse through some articles that you love, remembering where you were, who you were with, or the food and drink you spat out all over your laptop when you laughed. We encourage you to remember the good old days. And, moreover, we encourage you to remember us as funnier and better looking than we actually are. They’re your memories, why not make them better than crappy reality? It’s just an idea. However, you can also thumb through those magical memories over at the new site, as all of the old content is there including your comments from days past.

Kent and I are quite happy to finally be moving over to a legitimate site. It’s been a long time coming, as many of my friends can attest, having heard me piss and moan about it for months. The new site delivers a sleeker look, more pictures, easier navigation, and some new features still to come. A little preview: a word that starts with “V” and rhymes with “schmideo.” And we’re also planning on peddling merchandise to you, likely at prices that will make us millionares.

So, if you want any new content you’re going to have to go there. This wordpress site will now be ignored like the uglier, dumber child that it is.

Thanks to everyone that has been a part of The Talking Mirror so far. We look forward to bringing you sardonic, hyperbolic, semi-offensive content forever and ever, Amen.

Patriotically,

Conor and Kent

Christians, like Mary Davies, just can’t understand this derision. “Why can’t students accept the world the way God created it?” asks Davies, a library fiend and senior at Calvin. “Are we really to think that our plans for creation, or the poor, are better than God’s?”

Irate students march through campus expressing their displeasure with the increase in student activism.

After a recent student rally apparently seeking to save someone named “Darfur,” students protesting student protests created a scene warranting the attention of the Campus Police. As the rally moved from the quad to an outdoor acoustic bonfire session, many students held up signs saying: “Who made you God?” and “Jesus: ‘The poor will be with you always.’”

Seniors even orchestrated a chant more high pitched and angst ridden than your typical emo song. According to witnesses, Davies yelled out over a mega-phone “What do we want?!?” to a response of “Stability!!!” and Davies would again yell “When do we want it?!?” and the crowd would, again, yell “Whenever!!”

So impressed was the crowd with its coordinated yelling that it soon began singing a medley of songs in a round, including that one song where the men go “Let us adore” and then the women go “Let us adore” and then the men go “The everliving God” and then the women, again, go “The everliving God” and then the men again go “And render praise” and then the women, in a higher voice, go “And render praise” and so on. They also did most of Counting Crow’s Hard Candy album (except for that one song that goes really fast and the other one that cusses and those five that talk about alcohol).

Eventually, the whole protest was broken up after a student club called “A Piece of Peace” began throwing 4 day old bagels at the students protesting student protesters. According to a Piece spokesman, the group was enraged that the students protesting student protesters were not protesting protests more peacefully.

However, the courage of these Calvin Christians has inspired similar protests on campuses around the country.  Students hope that their marching, picketing, and organized chanting will bring an end to the sinful dissension of their peers and pave the way for the status quo to continue.

Graciously submitted under the pseudonym “Corporate McWeiner, Esq. Former diaper model, current recreational pharmacist, future minor deity in the Hindu pantheon.  Envied by men, desired by women, and universally loved by mother’s with daughters.  Ladies and gentlemen, Corporate McWeiner.

A man in South Philadelphia shot another man for talking during a movie.

See? You couldn’t help but smile a little bit and wish you could covertly high five the shooter. Don’t lie to me. You feel a little vindicated. And let’s be clear – we here at The Talking Mirror don’t condone violence. Except in situations where it’s really funny or is obviously the best form of justice. This situation happens to qualify for both. He didn’t kill the guy, he just shot him in the arm. And he had yelled at him the whole time and had even “fired a warning shot,” which is to say he threw popcorn at the guy.

How many times have you secretly wished you could do the same thing to some idiot who wouldn’t shut the hell up? This is a safe place. Let’s be vulnerable. I myself have had a few extended fantasies involving doing violence to people who talk during movies or kick my chair. Would I ever act on those fantasies? Of course not, I’m a civilized person and I’m not sure my snarky humor would get me very far in prison. But honestly, if you’re watching a movie in South Philly and some dude behind you is getting real pissed about you talking…. Maybe you should shut your mouth. It’s South Philly. It’s practically a real life version of Grand Theft Auto. If you decide to pull the “it’s a free country” card, then you need to realize that you might get shot. It is a free country, and that gentleman chose to use his freedom to shoot you and then get arrested. Was the conversation really worth it? I hope so, dumbass.

While these are all fascinating studies, I’d like to spend our time today focusing on the fourth topic with special attention to the near-hypnotic effect the word “clearance” has on shoppers, particularly those of the female persuasion.

It doesn’t take a neurosurgeon or hypnotist to recognize that something explodes in ladies’ brains when they are presented with a sign that says “75% off.”  They lose complete control of all cognitive abilities.  Basic motor skills are often lost as well.  Normal human emotions are replaced with a manic, single-minded hunger reminiscent of a Discovery Channel special on piranhas except with more scratching, biting, eye-gouging, and screams of pain and rage.

It is a terrifying thing to witness.  Entire shelves are emptied into already towering carts as mothers entertain previously inconceivable thoughts like, “Look at that price!  What daughter wouldn’t love a Dora the Explorer throw pillow?  I think I’ll get fifteen.”  When given quizzical or disapproving looks, they say things like, “I’m doing all my Christmas shopping today.”  And I say things like, “You have twenty people on your list who asked for Baby Burp N Giggle this year?”

And that’s the point.  The object of all this madness is stuff that no one and I mean no one needs or even wants.  It’s garbage.   It’s a mistake, a miscalculation, a tragic misinterpretation of consumer trends.  Some guy somewhere thought someone would want to buy something and he was proven incorrect.  The stuff sat unloved on a shelf for months.  It was then marked down to 50% off, and still, at half the original price, shoppers decided they could continue living their lives without it.  But then it went 75% off and became the last HoHo in fat camp.  It started flying out the door as everyone realized just how empty and incomplete their lives were without at least one – but probably several dozen – Barbie Hair Extension Kits.

Truly, it defies all logic and sensibility.  I mean, isn’t useless crap still useless crap no matter how much it costs?  I respect bargain hunting as much as the next impoverished college grad, but the fact that I can now get 100 bags of chocolate marshmallows for less than $10.00 doesn’t change the fact that chocolate marshmallows are monumentally disgusting.  I thought there was a recession going on.  Shouldn’t we all be saving our paychecks for mortgage payments, gas bills, and stockpiles of food and thermal blankets for the impending apocalypse?

I don’t know.  If nothing else, this behavior gives further credence to one immutable truth of human nature: no matter how reasonably priced a product may be, people would still rather have it for free.  It can also serve as a cautionary tale/survival tip.  In the same way you would never come between a mama bear and her cub, never, ever, for any reason, come between a mama human and her clearance.

That is all.

I digress. I wouldn’t wish this scenario upon you, but perhaps you’ll be at a party and every single person will be paired off, leaving you alone, frustrated, and somewhat pathetic. What’s a boy/girl to do in such a dire situation? Have no fear. There are ways to gather the shattered pieces of your self esteem off the linoleum and glue them back together into something respectable, maybe even into a smooch. Take my hand. Let’s go on a journey.

Option One: Avoidance
When the ball has nearly dropped and the countdown to everyone noticing how painfully alone you are is about to begin, be absent. Find any reason. Suddenly the champagne has gotten to you and you need to pee, maybe for like five to ten minutes. Just long enough for all the kissing and “Happy New Years” to die down. If someone asks you where you were, be sure to specifically mention peeing. Otherwise, if you throw down the “I was in the restroom” bit, they might think that the reason you took so long is because you were pooping. If word gets out about that, you’re sunk. No smooches for you. Of course this isn’t a problem for girls though, because everybody knows girls don’t poop. (Thanks Captain Obvious! – Kent)

Conversations might go like this:
Non-Alone Person: Dude, where were you at midnight?
Champion of Solitude: My car was on fire. I was just putting it out.
Non-Alone Person: Oh okay, cool.

Non-Alone Person: I noticed you were conspicuously absent at midnight when I was tonsil tickling my significant other.
Champion of Solitude: I was performing a jewel heist.
Non-Alone Person: I am now jealous of you.

You could also fall back on everybody’s savior in awkward social situations: your cell phone. What? It’s 11:55pm? Looks like my best friend is calling me! Gotta step out into the hallway/balcony/coat closet/freeway overpass to take this call. And when everybody is pairing off and flirting with each other, you should probably be texting. This shows everyone a few things:
1.) You like, totally don’t even notice that you’re the only one not swapping spit at midnight.
2.) Even if you’re alone now, you’re texting a super hottie that would seriously love to kiss you.
3.) Really though, you’re apathetic. For reals. Not a care at all. You only care about this text conversation with Hottie Hot Hotterson.

Whatever.

Option Two: The Funny Guy
As with public flatulence, making a joke out of your own misfortune is a gamble. If you’re not a seasoned joker, stick with option one. It’d be like when movie stars try to make music. You’re an actor. Leave the music to the musicians.

Your jokes about being alone have to be loud and proud. Generally these jokes need to be self-deprecating or insulting to those around you. Here are some modest ideas to get your brainstorm brewing:
1.) I decided to start my “no kissing sluts” resolution five minutes ago.
2.) If I wanted mouth herpes, I’d be kissing your mother.
3.) It’s cool, I really enjoy being alone while I’m surrounded by people kissing each other. It’s a voyeuristic thing.

Just make sure your delivery borders on obnoxious. If you’re too subtle, you’re just going to devolve back into being pathetic.  It’s hard to maintain the delicate balance, but it can be done. At the very least, it maintains your dignity as the clown that everyone loves but doesn’t want to kiss.

And Option Three: This is Your Choice
This is a hard sell, but it’s also somewhat hard to debunk. You just have to act like you’re alone because you want to be, not because you have been systematically rejected by every member of the opposite sex that is present. Your excuses should be creative, but not so creative that they’re impossible to believe. Tell people that you have mono, don’t tell people that you have small pox. Tell them you have a girlfriend in another state, don’t tell them that you’re dating Princess Siriwannawari Nariratana of Thailand. Tell them you’re abstaining for religious reasons, don’t say “these bitches is schwag.” You get the idea. If you play it right, no one can argue with you. Nobody wants to prove that you don’t have mono.

No more excuses. If you find yourself in this wretched situation on New Years Eve, you know what to do. Then again, you could also just leave before midnight. But that’s too easy, right?

Come back next week for the next Coping Guide. Happy New Year from The Talking Mirror. Here’s to hoping you get a little action.

I got as far as “If there’s one thing the Third World does right, it’s…” when I realized that any attempts at coherent thinking were futile.  Not wanting to waste my time or my vanilla latte, I will instead be describing for you the details of this star-crossed couple’s conversation and we shall see what universal truths we can extract from this unfolding human drama.

If I’ve interpreted the heavy sighs, pouty faces, and vague accusations (“You always do this,” “See, this is what I’m talking about” “You look gross when you cry”) correctly, it appears that this relationship was done in –  like so many relationships before it – by a disagreement surrounding the proper observation of the Yuletide Festival.  He apparently did not understand that Her extended family is the most important thing in the world to Her, and She did not understand that He could care less about what was important to Her.

He compassionately stated his utter disdain for all these “serious conversations” they have to have.  She expressed her sincere desire that he stop behaving like an infant.  He inquired as to why she had to make a big deal out of everything, proposing instead that these things be discussed objectively and without emotion, perhaps not even at all.  She retorted that it was his inability to discuss weighty matters  that led to these arguments and postulated that perhaps “[they] can’t keep doing this.”

This proclamation was followed by the first intermission.  He spent a minute or so looking around and doodling with his finger on the frost covered window.  She spent the break in silent reflection; no doubt thinking of all the chick flicks this fight reminded her of.  He opened the second act with an impassioned monologue recounting the multiple trips he had made to visit her last semester, the fancy dinner he had squired her to on the previous evening, and her propensity to freak out about everything.  He closed by making specific reference to the fact that “all [her] family does is go to church.”

She gave due consideration to the merit of his statements and then requested that he “kiss [her] ass.”  (Author’s note: It is also possible that she said “I miss class,”  “Christmas past,” or any number of similar phrases.  She spoke softly and the acoustics were poor.)  Before allowing him time to comply or refuse, She speculated that perhaps He was missing Her point entirely.  Her only desire was for Him to (a) spend some time with her and her family, (b) attempt to meet Her at some unstated midway point, and (c) start taking this union seriously.  Having heard these demands, He politely requested that, if possible, She refrain from freaking out during any and all future interactions.

At this point they took their second intermission.

Sadly, it was during this second intermission that my cover was blown.  He spotted my unobtrusive hideout at the adjacent table and suggested that I take a photograph as it would be a more permanent memento.  I rejoined that my blog post would be souvenir enough.  He then said something about “sticking [my] grass.” (Again, I could have misheard.)  He proposed to his lady friend that they continue their discussion elsewhere and the two exited the store stage left.

So, you ask, how does this stirring scene conclude?  Do they work it out?  Do they part ways bitterly and unfriend each other on Facebook?  I haven’t the slightest.  Like the number of licks it takes to get to the tootsie roll center of a tootsie pop – the world will never know.  For what it’s worth though, I’m pulling for the latter.

But who are these oafish imposters? The Talking Mirror spoke with mall Santas across the country in an effort to uncover the lives behind the laps. In the process, we learned more than just the current state of the mall Santa Claus. We learned about the state of the economy, the nature of addiction, and maybe, just maybe, a little something about ourselves. Due to space restrictions, and the proclivity of most Santas for profane and offensive language, we have decided to print only one interview. However, one should be sufficient as each mall Santa is, at his core, identical to all the rest.

Chad Blagojevich on the job

Chad Blagojevich- Mall Santa

Hi. My name is Chad Blagojevich and I’m a mall Santa. And no, I’m not related to that Blagojevich; no, I did not get my seat by some “pay to play” scheme. My family is Serbian. What’s the big deal?

So, the Talking Mirror wanted to do a little investigative reporting this holiday season. They asked me to be brutally honest, so I’ll just be brutally honest right now. The holidays aren’t easy for me. I’m bumping up against morbid obesity and I have a beard that’s only attractive to Hasidic Jews (hipsters hate me because of my weight). I’m three times divorced, a Nam veteran, and the proud owner of a Maine Coon cat named Don Bacardi that I have to feed daily. So, yeah, this job is pretty clutch for me. Here’s my schedule from Thanksgiving to Christmas.

10:30am- Wake up. Usually to the musical stylings of The Boston Philharmonic’s Christmas Spectacular, usually snuggling with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels.

11:00am- By about now I’ve pulled my head out of the toilet long enough to make breakfast. I’ll eat some Fruity Pebbles, maybe have a “breakfast shake” (Miller Lite or something), and usually I’ll try to eat a bunch of fudge before I suit up.

11:45am- I’ve showered and donned the ole red and white. In case you want to know, yes, I own my own suit, no, it has never been washed (who can afford dry cleaning?) and no, you can’t borrow it for New Years Eve.

1:00pm- After about an hour commute by public transit, I’m in my chair, ready to start receiving the kiddies, the homeless, and whoever else. There are a few questions I get consistently. Things like, “Santa, how do you travel the whole world in one night,” or, “Why is your face so red,” or, “Where are your reindeer parked,” or, “Why does your breath smell like when I go number one?”

So from about 1:00 to 6:30, I sit in that chair and pretend to be someone I’m not. I get a mandatory union break on the hour for 10 minutes. Usually, I’ll run in the back and grab a nip of the ole egg nog or a maybe swing by the Wet Seal and peek at Claire from behind the sweater racks.

Otherwise it’s nothing but boredom, bourbon, and bitchy moms. In a way, I’m kind of like a trucker just with less dignity somehow. But I’ve learned to deal. Sometimes I’ll pass the time by telling the kids that last year’s cookies sucked, or that there brother is getting all the good stuff this year, or that I killed Santa and am just wearing his clothes, stuff like that. They get a real kick out of it, or at least I do.

Speaking of kids, I’ve hosted more than my share of little people on my lap, and generally they fall into six basic categories:

1. Kids who will grow up to be huge corporate dicks.
2. Kids who cry and urinate uncontrollably at the site of me.
3. Kids whose moms I’d like to do.
4. Kids whose moms I would not like to do.
5. Kids who are already fatter than me.
6. Sorority girls who want something cute but a little ironic to post on Facebook. (Who I’d like to do.)

That’s pretty much a day in my life during Christmas. But, even though I’m a mall Santa, I like to party. Sure I’ve got some problems, but who doesn’t, right? My name is Chad. I work at the Oak Brook Mall. Hit me up for a good time. If you want. Or not. Whatever. Merry Christmas and stuff.

This little piece of Christmas cheer was provided to us by Ryan K. Hodgen, a gentleman and a scholar. Merry Christmas to all from The Talking Mirror!

Conor smiled warmly, staring off into the distance as he basked in the triumphant knowledge of a villain, smote. And yet, despite the vivid memories he had of that bloody battle – memories which he relived on a daily basis with a proud half-smile, a head nod, and an imagined fist pound with Jesus and Lady Luck -  inside him an alarm was sounding ominously. Maybe he was ignoring it, or maybe it was being drowned out by the gleeful giggles of his relatively obese daughter as she ascended to dangerous heights on a swingset that could have the structural equivalent of a brain aneurysm at any moment. No matter what the agent, Conor had become deaf to the voice that was wailing inside him like an global warming protester, except less annoying and concerning a threat that was actually real.

“Conor, can you hear me?!” It pleaded desperately.

“Conor! Ugg boots have risen!”

He could hear the voice loud and clear in the back of his mind, almost as if it was behind him. Weird, he thought to himself, My inner monologues never sound that real.

Suddenly Conor’s head jerked and he stumbled forward, nearly falling down. “Hey! Douche. Listen to me.” It was the voice, now somewhat exasperated and aggressive. “This is for real. The One Ugg is glowing, and if it is united with the Dark Mini Skirt of the Harlot, a portal to hell will open up!”
“God? Is that you?” Conor asked, looking up.
“No you jackass, it’s me – Zac.”
Conor turned around, and there stood his curly haired comrade, his friend, his brother.
“Dude, you just missed the weirdest thing. I could hear my conscience, like audibly. Then it hit me in the back of the head! I wonder if I’m high? But without narcotics somehow?”
“You should never have reproduced,” Zac said, shaking his head. He was, of course, referring to Giovannia, Conor’s unexplainable, lardy 17 year old daughter who was born and raised in one year. He also had no wife or girlfriend. She was Conor’s little miracle. As if God sought to provide some kind of cosmic proof for Zac’s statement, behind them the chains of the swingset snapped, sending Giovannia’s mighty frame hurdling through the air. She landed on a nearby slide, destroying it almost entirely.
“Whoa, feel that? Little earthquake,” Conor said, continuously oblivious. “Giovannia!” he screamed over his shoulder, “Stop swinging and go get yourself a Twinkie out of the trunk.” He took her silence as an affirmation, when in reality it was unconsciousness. Zac shook his head, fighting off the urge to find another partner in the battle against this great monster. No one knows how to navigate this darkness better than him, he thought. And I definitely can’t do this alone.

“She’s something, isn’t she? A real peach,” Conor said, still not looking back at his now barely conscious, groaning daughter.
“Yeah. Right. Look man, we’ve got to talk. Uggs are back, and I mean big time. We thought we had killed them, but we didn’t. I think we’ve got to take the battle to their wretched, hellish birthing place. We have to go to Australia.”
“No… No, this can’t be… You mean, we’re going to Australia? With Hugh Jackman and Nicole Kidman?”
“Yes. Yes. Exactly.” Zac said, unwilling to fight the uphill battle that an explanation would be.
“Alright. Let’s go,” Conor said nonchalantly.
“What about Giovannia? You can’t just leave her there.”
“Oh, she’ll be alright. She’s a big girl.”
Zac held back his comment and patted his friend on the shoulder because, God help him, he just didn’t get it.

Just as they were about to turn around to leave, there was an explosion, knocking them both to the ground. Zac’s Prius had blown up, but this wasn’t some freak hybrid battery accident…

They were under attack.

To be continued…

The fact that I am staunchly opposed to recycling, organic fruit, fair trade coffee and all other kinds of science has little to do with me being either a Republican or a Christian.  Rather, it has to do with my comprehension of a simple truth that Al Gore and the other tree humpers have failed to grasp.  The fact of the matter is this: given the chance, The Environment will kill you and everyone you have ever cared for.  It has tried for centuries to wipe all memory of mankind from the face of the earth.  Millions upon millions of our ancestors have been slain by this terrible, misanthropic demon-spirit, and now that we’ve finally got it on the ropes, our celebrities and college professors are going all Clara Barton and nursing the monster back to health.  They, not global warming, must be stopped.  If these Benedict Arnolds are allowed to continue making PSAs, running for office, and driving hybrids, we run the risk of losing all the ground the internal combustion engine and the industrialization of China have gained for us.

Now I’m sure there are some of you who are not convinced of how contemptuously you are regarded by The Environment.  You like the zoo; you think hiking is fun; you’ve been to a few outdoor music festivals.  Whatever.  Consider this: in 2007 more people were killed by weather related incidents than by football two-a-days, bar fights, rap feuds, and fraternity hazings combined.  Over the past half century, significantly more people have died from drowning, burning, hypothermia, and mauling than  from stabbing, shooting, smothering, or shaking.  On a more personal note, Nature has thus far ruined seven of my twenty-three birthdays with a spite-filled cocktail of cantaloupe-sized  hail, rabid dogs, and tornadic activity.

Still not convinced?  Consider the annual onslaught known as “Winter” through which we are currently suffering.  Winter stands in the esteemed company of alcohol, tobacco, and allergies as the most potent weapon in The Environment’s arsenal.  The Season of Sad comes earlier and stays later each year – making significant in-roads into both November and March – and it is getting ever more brazen in it’s attacks.  Three times last week I awoke to find my car vandalized with a blanket of ice and snow.  Twice I was late to work thanks to Nature having rendered the highways impassable.  I live in constant fear of suffering embarrassment and injury at the hands of the treacherous sidewalks and parking lots on which I must walk.  It is insufferable.  The Environment renders my world unlivable for six months of the year, and I, for one, am tired of sitting back and taking it.

Isn’t it time we put Nature in it’s place?  Aren’t you tired of hearing things like “it’s a sunny fifteen degrees today, but with that wind it feels more like negative ten”? I know I am.  Lets do something about it!  Lets all commit right here, right now to flushing a toilet  every time we walk by a bathroom.  Move bottles from the recycling to the trash!  Buy twice the food you need and throw half of it away.  Need less, use more!  I don’t know about you, but I eat at least three different kinds of meat for every meal.  It’s often inconvenient and prohibitively expensive, but  it’s worth it.

The Environment isn’t going away on it’s own, and  I don’t want my children and grandchildren to have to live in fear of Nature just because we were too afraid to eat out of season fruit.  Our intellectual and cultural leaders have made it clear that they aren’t going to fight this battle for us.  No, this is the cause of our generation.  Get involved!  Join the revolution!  If we all do our part to waste and consume a little more each day, we could be free of winter by 2020. Dream it. Believe it. Do it.  Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go melt the ice cap forming on top of my car.

I put “part one” in this title because I’m sure I’ll find some other issue that fits under the “Nanny State” title that defies all logic and good sense. For now, however, we’re only going to traverse the rocky crag that is “smoking in bars.”

Now I understand that many of you don’t like to smoke and don’t like being around smoke/smokers/fat people. I get that. I used to be in your camp. I’m not going to say “but then I saw the light” or anything ridiculous like that; instead I’ll say “but then I lived with some dudes that smoked a lot of cigarettes.” No fat people though. I’d never do that.

this man deserves the right to blow smoke in your face.

That doesn’t mean I’m now a smoker myself (but I am a party puffer) nor am I a fat person (although I do eat a lot of McDonald’s); it just means that cigarettes no longer hold the status of “mysterious, terrifying monster” that they once did. Even before that, this particular issue always struck the anger chord deep in my freedom-loving soul. It’s not that I want to go to a bar to drink some beer and smoke a pack – I just want the right to do that. This is America. If I want emphysema, by God I should be able to get it. So you “don’t like the smell” and “think it’s gross” and “don’t want cancer from second-hand smoke.” Fine. But don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, you sissy. Go start your own non-smoking sissy girl bar down the street. Maybe call it “Sissy Girl’s” or “Nancy Boy’s.” Ehhh… Maybe not those names. Unwanted implications there. But you get the idea. I’m insulting you for being weak, whiny pansies and I don’t want you forcing your weak, pansy preferences on me like some sort of preference molester.

Do I see the benefits of a smokeless bar-hopping experience? Surely I do. For one, after I leave the bar my pea coat doesn’t smell like I stole it from the Marlboro man. Also, a drunk person doesn’t accidentally burn me with their cigarette. And finally I don’t constantly get asked by the same drunk girl if she can “borrow a cigarette.” I’m sorry mam, but as you obviously have no intention of returning said cigarette, I’m going to have to reject your request to borrow one.

I get both sides of the argument here. I’m just saying that we need to have some bars that you can smoke in and some bars that are smoke free. This isn’t the 20′s. This isn’t the prohibition era, although I think I’d welcome the return of speak-easys. If we’re going to be a truly relativistic society like I know we all want to be, we need to let the smokers do what they think is right for themselves rather than forcing our preferences upon them. Since when did America embrace an objective moral standard of right and wrong? Exactly. Smoking is no different.