So here we go with the infuso rocket. Right off the bat, I take a sniff and get... not much of anything. Nothing potent, anyway. Not sure if that's good or bad, but we'll see. (@Glassman Maybe the cello worked!?)
It's hot outside. I decided if I'm going to be masochistic today, might as well go all out. So we're doing this in the pleasant Arizona summer.
Looks good. Feels a little firm. Slightly tight cold draw.
I look up the cigar to see what I'm supposed to taste. It's Dominican with an Ec Connie wrapper.
After lighting, it reminds me a little of an PDR 1878 natural. Very mild, with some of that creamy Ct wrapper coming through. Nothing bad.
Having ice water with it, which is a good thing because even tea or light beer would overwhelm this thing.
Sitting here, waiting for something bad to happen, and the most exciting thing so far is a fly that has decided to befriend me.
I'll call him Bernard.
Bernard is persistent; I keep blowing smoke at him but he's hanging tough.
About 2 minutes in and the flavor, such as it is, begins to fade. I retro to try and pick up something, and get soap. Not girly, infused soap. Just the plain yellowish-tan bar soap that everyone's aunt kept in the bathroom when they were a kid. Dollar store brand bubble blowing soap that comes in the gallon jug.
This sucks.
Now I taste the soap in my mouth. Maybe the retro was a bad idea, because that's all I can taste now. It's not overwhelming, but it's become the ONLY note, so it's upfront and omnipresent with each puff.
Bernard is frolicking in my leg hair, tickling me. It distracts me from the uninspiring cigar I'm sucking on. I'm thinking about a fly, and how it has compound eyes. My leg is pretty hairy as it is, but what must it look like with all those eyes? To Bernard, I must look a Greek woman whose been sucking down testosterone supplements.
Back to the task at hand... The soap taste is gone, and now it's nothing. The complete absence of flavor. It's causing a dilemma: do I retro again to see if the soap comes back, or do I keep sucking away at nothing?
Decisions, decisions.
The ash falls off, and the cone that's left doesn't go completely out to the edge of the cigar, there's sort of an inset cone inside a wrapper/binder ring. Kinda looks like a nipple. I immediately think of @bwhite220 .
I sip some water. The barely-there mineral taste of the tap water is an explosion of flavor in my mouth.
I smoke some more
A drop of sweat rolls down my back
Somewhere a dog barks.
Just need a tumbleweed to blow by to complete the scene.
I contemplate this cigar: It seems to be producing some sort of gustatory sine wave, 180 out of phase with the background flavors around it. In a moment of panic I wonder if it's euthanizing my taste buds... eliminating flavor from my life entirely. Placing me permanently in a taste deprivation chamber, devoid of anything interesting.
A yellow jacket flies by and brings me back to the moment. I wonder about yellow jackets; They're not all that bad, behavior wise (not like a hornet), and even when they do sting, it's not all that painful. But the way they look is unsettling.
I imagine God in his lab, tinkering with the female emotional system, trying to debug that crap for the 700th time, and one of his assistants floats in and brings the news that there seem to be some people that remain un-bothered by insects; Ants, roaches, flies, dung-beetles... nothing seems to phase these people. God says "hold my wine" and churns out a fucking yellow jacket. The assistant screams like a little girl and hauls ass behind Gods robes...
<Angel> "WTF, boss? "
The cigar is still with me. A leviathon of nothingness. It's a void, not able to be detected directly, but instead observed by it's absence.
I decide to retro again. Yep, still soap. It's almost welcome. Unlike last time, the taste stops as soon as it started.
Back to nothing
Bernard braids my leg hair.
The gangsta yellowjacket hovers at the edge of my vision.
It needs a touch up. I prefer to use soft flame to do this. As soon as I try, the wind picks up. Like God is trolling me for the yellow jacket thing. Part of me thinks this is egotistical... that God has other things to concern him, but another part figures the creator of the universe is probably above average at multi-tasking. Guy probably has N processes going at any given time, with N representing a pretty high value.
I decide to wait a moment... Soon the God-troll subroutine will reallocate the resources that were blowing out my lighter and go give someone a paper-cut or something. The wind dies. I light quickly. The wind picks up just after I get it done. "Ha! Take that! Go review the requirements document that called for mosquitoes, big guy."
In a moment of stupidity I decide to see if I can make this thing bitter by smoking fast. I pick up the pace a little. Minutes pass. Nothing. Pick it up some more. Nothing. Starting to smoke a little hot. Still nothing. I wonder idly if I can get tongue bite from a cigar. Puff. Puff. Puff. Nothing.
I huff away like a paint addict with a fresh can of silver Krylon. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Oh crap, there it is. Jackpot. It's bitter now. "Congratulations, dumb-ass! It tastes awful."
Gotta say, that wasn't my most brilliant plan, but even the bitterness is mocking me. It's bitter in an academic sense, but without substance or tangible/describable attributes. It's bitter out of obligation, bitter because it's contractually obligated, but it's heart isn't in it.
As soon as I stop huffing, it returns to the void, the only evidence that anything ever happened is that a split formed at the head. Cracked from the heat, I assume.
Now each time I suck, my lip gets pinched in the crack.
Heh. Lips getting pinched in a crack makes me think of Brandon again (what can I say.. you bring this on yourself)
Caramel! All of a sudden, I'm getting a caramel note!
Kidding. Still nothing.
If possible, it's even less than before:
A void, existing within a singularity, inside a black hole, floating in a forgotten universe where the final heat death has occurred, and all space, time, and matter has been reduced to a theoretical abstract.
In desperation I retro again. Nothing. Not even soap. I wonder if it's really gone, or if my sinuses have simply given up.
I imagine little olfactory elves dwelling inside my head:
<Worker elf> "Hey boss, here comes that soapy smoke again. Should I keep pressing the "smells like generic soap button?"
<Head olfactory elf>. "Meh. Whatever. I'm going to lunch."
If I was one of those elves, I'd start messing with me. I'd start pushing buttons at random:
<retrohaling for the 20th time> I wonder if it **still** smells like soap
<Me inside my head, looking around at the control console> How about... Roses and (looks around again) Ant spray!
< (in disbelief) retros again>
<Elf> Blue cheese!
<Retros again>
<Elf>Eucalyptus!
<Completely confused, tries again>
<Elf> Wet newspaper and cloves!
<Again>
<Elf> Skunk and fresh strawberries
I'd be a fun elf.
My elves however, just walked off the job. They were so bored they couldn't even be bothered to mess with me.
I get nothing.
I've decided that Jeremy has invented an ennui delivery system.
It occurs to me this could be weaponized: These could be air dropped over Al Qaeda controlled areas of Afghanistan.
Two days later, guys from out of the Provence would be rolling up to the the caves:
"Achmed, Mahmaud! Grab your rifles! We're going to go behead infidels and make sweet love to their goats!"
<Achmed and Mahmaud, staring at the cave wall> You go ahead. We're going to just lay here and watch flies braid our leg hair.
The CIA should probably be informed of this discovery, but I can't work up the energy to do it.
No chance at this point anything interesting comes of this, so I'm out.
Into the flowerpot it goes... I expect the plant to die soon, fertilized, watered, plenty of sunlight, but completely robbed of the will to go on.
I say goodbye to Bernard, and tell the yellow jacket to go annoy someone else.
As soon as I regain some motivation I'll look through the rocket box and figure out takes/puts.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Not cut out to be a cigar reviewer, because I don't know what to do with stuff like that. Holy Crap.
Roulette tomorrow
It's hot outside. I decided if I'm going to be masochistic today, might as well go all out. So we're doing this in the pleasant Arizona summer.
Looks good. Feels a little firm. Slightly tight cold draw.
I look up the cigar to see what I'm supposed to taste. It's Dominican with an Ec Connie wrapper.
After lighting, it reminds me a little of an PDR 1878 natural. Very mild, with some of that creamy Ct wrapper coming through. Nothing bad.
Having ice water with it, which is a good thing because even tea or light beer would overwhelm this thing.
Sitting here, waiting for something bad to happen, and the most exciting thing so far is a fly that has decided to befriend me. I'll call him Bernard.
Bernard is persistent; I keep blowing smoke at him but he's hanging tough.
About 2 minutes in and the flavor, such as it is, begins to fade. I retro to try and pick up something, and get soap. Not girly, infused soap. Just the plain yellowish-tan bar soap that everyone's aunt kept in the bathroom when they were a kid. Dollar store brand bubble blowing soap that comes in the gallon jug.
This sucks.
Now I taste the soap in my mouth. Maybe the retro was a bad idea, because that's all I can taste now. It's not overwhelming, but it's become the ONLY note, so it's upfront and omnipresent with each puff.
Bernard is frolicking in my leg hair, tickling me. It distracts me from the uninspiring cigar I'm sucking on. I'm thinking about a fly, and how it has compound eyes. My leg is pretty hairy as it is, but what must it look like with all those eyes? To Bernard, I must look a Greek woman whose been sucking down testosterone supplements.
Back to the task at hand... The soap taste is gone, and now it's nothing. The complete absence of flavor. It's causing a dilemma: do I retro again to see if the soap comes back, or do I keep sucking away at nothing?
Decisions, decisions.
The ash falls off, and the cone that's left doesn't go completely out to the edge of the cigar, there's sort of an inset cone inside a wrapper/binder ring. Kinda looks like a nipple. I immediately think of @bwhite220 .
I sip some water. The barely-there mineral taste of the tap water is an explosion of flavor in my mouth.
I smoke some more
A drop of sweat rolls down my back
Somewhere a dog barks.
Just need a tumbleweed to blow by to complete the scene.
I contemplate this cigar: It seems to be producing some sort of gustatory sine wave, 180 out of phase with the background flavors around it. In a moment of panic I wonder if it's euthanizing my taste buds... eliminating flavor from my life entirely. Placing me permanently in a taste deprivation chamber, devoid of anything interesting.
A yellow jacket flies by and brings me back to the moment. I wonder about yellow jackets; They're not all that bad, behavior wise (not like a hornet), and even when they do sting, it's not all that painful. But the way they look is unsettling.
I imagine God in his lab, tinkering with the female emotional system, trying to debug that crap for the 700th time, and one of his assistants floats in and brings the news that there seem to be some people that remain un-bothered by insects; Ants, roaches, flies, dung-beetles... nothing seems to phase these people. God says "hold my wine" and churns out a fucking yellow jacket. The assistant screams like a little girl and hauls ass behind Gods robes...
<Angel> "WTF, boss? "
The cigar is still with me. A leviathon of nothingness. It's a void, not able to be detected directly, but instead observed by it's absence.
I decide to retro again. Yep, still soap. It's almost welcome. Unlike last time, the taste stops as soon as it started.
Back to nothing
Bernard braids my leg hair.
The gangsta yellowjacket hovers at the edge of my vision.
It needs a touch up. I prefer to use soft flame to do this. As soon as I try, the wind picks up. Like God is trolling me for the yellow jacket thing. Part of me thinks this is egotistical... that God has other things to concern him, but another part figures the creator of the universe is probably above average at multi-tasking. Guy probably has N processes going at any given time, with N representing a pretty high value.
I decide to wait a moment... Soon the God-troll subroutine will reallocate the resources that were blowing out my lighter and go give someone a paper-cut or something. The wind dies. I light quickly. The wind picks up just after I get it done. "Ha! Take that! Go review the requirements document that called for mosquitoes, big guy."
In a moment of stupidity I decide to see if I can make this thing bitter by smoking fast. I pick up the pace a little. Minutes pass. Nothing. Pick it up some more. Nothing. Starting to smoke a little hot. Still nothing. I wonder idly if I can get tongue bite from a cigar. Puff. Puff. Puff. Nothing.
I huff away like a paint addict with a fresh can of silver Krylon. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Oh crap, there it is. Jackpot. It's bitter now. "Congratulations, dumb-ass! It tastes awful."
Gotta say, that wasn't my most brilliant plan, but even the bitterness is mocking me. It's bitter in an academic sense, but without substance or tangible/describable attributes. It's bitter out of obligation, bitter because it's contractually obligated, but it's heart isn't in it.
As soon as I stop huffing, it returns to the void, the only evidence that anything ever happened is that a split formed at the head. Cracked from the heat, I assume.
Now each time I suck, my lip gets pinched in the crack.
Heh. Lips getting pinched in a crack makes me think of Brandon again (what can I say.. you bring this on yourself)
Caramel! All of a sudden, I'm getting a caramel note!
Kidding. Still nothing.
If possible, it's even less than before:
A void, existing within a singularity, inside a black hole, floating in a forgotten universe where the final heat death has occurred, and all space, time, and matter has been reduced to a theoretical abstract.
In desperation I retro again. Nothing. Not even soap. I wonder if it's really gone, or if my sinuses have simply given up.
I imagine little olfactory elves dwelling inside my head:
<Worker elf> "Hey boss, here comes that soapy smoke again. Should I keep pressing the "smells like generic soap button?"
<Head olfactory elf>. "Meh. Whatever. I'm going to lunch."
If I was one of those elves, I'd start messing with me. I'd start pushing buttons at random:
<retrohaling for the 20th time> I wonder if it **still** smells like soap
<Me inside my head, looking around at the control console> How about... Roses and (looks around again) Ant spray!
< (in disbelief) retros again>
<Elf> Blue cheese!
<Retros again>
<Elf>Eucalyptus!
<Completely confused, tries again>
<Elf> Wet newspaper and cloves!
<Again>
<Elf> Skunk and fresh strawberries
I'd be a fun elf.
My elves however, just walked off the job. They were so bored they couldn't even be bothered to mess with me.
I get nothing.
I've decided that Jeremy has invented an ennui delivery system.
It occurs to me this could be weaponized: These could be air dropped over Al Qaeda controlled areas of Afghanistan.
Two days later, guys from out of the Provence would be rolling up to the the caves:
"Achmed, Mahmaud! Grab your rifles! We're going to go behead infidels and make sweet love to their goats!"
<Achmed and Mahmaud, staring at the cave wall> You go ahead. We're going to just lay here and watch flies braid our leg hair.
The CIA should probably be informed of this discovery, but I can't work up the energy to do it.
No chance at this point anything interesting comes of this, so I'm out.
Into the flowerpot it goes... I expect the plant to die soon, fertilized, watered, plenty of sunlight, but completely robbed of the will to go on.
I say goodbye to Bernard, and tell the yellow jacket to go annoy someone else.
As soon as I regain some motivation I'll look through the rocket box and figure out takes/puts.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Not cut out to be a cigar reviewer, because I don't know what to do with stuff like that. Holy Crap.
Roulette tomorrow
