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Dec 22, 2013
New York
Reminds me the man that invented the Falcon Pipe. He was a disbarred from the practice of law for moonlighting as an unlicensed Phrenologist and male cross dresser at an East London Go-Go bar near the London Docks. One night after breaking his Dunhill Pipe which he had been using to pleasure a midget sailor from a German tramp steamer he picked up a wooden door knob. Examining it later he realized that with a length brake pipe and a number of refashioned Colt 45 malt liquor cans he had the basis of a world beating pipe. The rest they say is history and here is a song Ivor Biggun sung by George Formby!



Part of the Furniture Now
Dec 9, 2023
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
I see that a few of you are deciding to not butt heads with Mr Briar Lee and instead accept his ways of telling tales of yore. That’s a good thing!

For when Pere Marquette, the famous Jesuit Priest, whose journeys meandered down the shores of Michigan and out west to the Mississippi and back up the Illinois River before establishing a mission to convert the residents of a Maskoutan village located at the now intersection of 5th Street and Wisconsin Avenue, gazed out upon the mighty Lake Michigan would have never envisioned the amazing future that lay ahead for the area.

Indeed, had he lived long enough to see the Bridge War come to its conclusion, a regretful despute between Solomon Juneau and Byron Kilbourn, where the East Ward residents paid an unscrupulous captain to ram his schooner into the Spring Street Bridge in May of 1845, yet its outcome forming the great City of Milwaukee, you may have seen him walking up and down the gaudy blocks of Water Street, blushing and grasping his crucifix, gingerly sidestepping the drunks passed out in the beer soaked gutters, while the saucy ladies of the night, with their ribbons and lace plied their trades.

Yet he did not live to see those days, nor those years when the Germans moved westward to the suburbs a to be replaced by the Irish, and then the Italians, Polish, and Spanish behind; nor was his physical body there to watch the Polish workers build the Basilica of St Josephat brick by brick, with bare hands and knowledge brought from The Old Country, expecting no pay except for the salvation of their souls, and to finally have the dirt floors in the basement finished properly in the early 20th century.

We might surmise though, that Father Marquette, owing his explorations to the use of navigatable waters, by canoe, raft, and longboat, to have enjoyed Rouseco Buoy Yellow Premium shag tobacco, a Virginia unlike no other and tastier than the finest premium blends others prefer to smoke. In fact he might surmise that Buoy was handed down to the people by God himself.

But we will never know. Father Marquette passed away in 1675 at age 37. In Michigan.
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King Bulldog

Starting to Get Obsessed
Still today in the dairy region of the Ozarks the FFA has Dairy Products judging teams.

In 1973 me, Johnny and William swept all before us at Miami Oklahoma and Springfield and then went to state contest at Columbia Missouri.

William gave me shit about smoking and I beat his ass anyway. Johnny and I got blue ribbons and big medals for our jackets and not William. We placed 3rd and would have won, if not for William.

Milk is not all the same, nor cottage cheese.

There are about nine different faults it can have and even the best is graded 5-9, there is no 10, in Missouri FFA competitions.

My father sold 9-10 grade, perfect milk. His secret was that one Guernsey that was usually the hind cow of 25.

9-10 was school lunch grade, for those little cartons. Each year the school boards had blind taste testing before the contracts were awarded.

I would have made a good milk inspector, you know?

There’s boys in Durham North Carolina every bit as good of tobacco inspectors.
Let me tell you a little story about a man named Johnny Tarr. He was a hard drinking son of a preacher, always at the bar. Lager from the tap or shots of Paddy from the shelf He could open his throttle and throw back a bottle as quick as the devil himself!
Word got around that Johnny Tarr was no pretender; from Clare to here they'd lock up the beer when Johnny went on a bender. Down at Dickey Mack's, the Rising Sun, or at the Swan, if he was drinking at seven, by ten to eleven well all the booze would be gone!

It was nine in the morning on a cold rainy night, Johnny rolled into the Castle Bar, looking to get tight. He had money in his pocket, he had whiskey in his eye. He said: Get up off your asses and set up the glasses, I'm drinking this place dry! Now all the serious boozers, they were soon broken hearted when Johnny finished off six and he was only getting started.
Guzzling down the pints, knocking em back like candy, he was looking alright to be drinking all night, then Nora brought out the Brandy!

Johnny drank the whole damn bottle, had another pint or two, when it made no impression he started his session with Murphy's Millenium Brew. He was waiting for a pint when his face turned green. Jesus, Johnny fell down after only fifteen! You could have heard a pin drop, then the crowd let out a roar. It took five cork women to lift Johnny off the floor!
The doctor looked him over and said you better call the hearse: but it's not what you're thinking it wasn't the drinking this man died of thirst.
Even if you say it yourself, you wouldn't believe. And I wouldn't trust a person like me, if I were you. I wasn't there, I swear I have an alibi. I heard it from a man who knows a fella who says it's true!

K.E. Powell

Part of the Furniture Now
Aug 20, 2022
West Virginia
When my father was a young boy, he would hanker for a fountain pop and a slice of pizza after a day's worth of bailing hay for the third most obese cucumber farmer in all of Gophertits, Arkansas.

The best pizza in his little town of Gophertits, Arkansas was to be found in the quaint pizza parlor owned by an old Italian welder by the name of Sebastian Fettuccine. Everyone knew him as Ole Walt, a name he shares with a once well-known antisemite famous for making portraits of cartoon rats.

Now, my daddy would go up to Ole Walt and, hungry something fierce, get a slice of pizza knowing full well that the cheese on pizza would be sprinkled on and unmelted.

Ole Walt came to Gophertits poorer and more confused than a homeless vagabond on house arrest. In fact, he was so poor, that he couldn't afford an oven that could get hot enough to melt the thick-cut mozzarella proper. Back then, even foreign cheeses like mozzarella were subject to the fastidious standards of local dairy farmers. Except for William. Fuck William. And a high grade mozzarella will, as any tried hand can tell you, not melt under any heat cooler than the Devil's bottom, and you can bet your bottom dollar on that.

This didn't stop my daddy from enjoying the best pizza available to him, nor did it stop him from proposing to Ole Walt's daughter and eventually inheriting Ole Walt's pizza parlor. He would later convert that same parlor into a Gumby's cigarette shop and gambling arcade, which still holds the illustrious distinction of being the location of the second-most interesting heroin overdose in all of the tri-state area.

Daddy still sells bags of Buoy and Gambler there. He worked in the dirt and by God, he will smoke the dirt. I think Ole Walt would have been just fine with that.


Briar Lee

Sep 4, 2021
Humansville Missouri
I thought RYOs were cigarette tobaccos that have all kinds of chemical additives and nicotine that are bad for you, while pipe tobaccos were more natural and had flavored casings to enhance flavor only. Is this correct or not correct ?

There’s no evidence additives are worse than tobacco. The public says they don’t want additives and yet demands tasty smokes. The true premium pipe tobaccos about all are cased or topped or flavored and have PG. The lower shelf cheap pipe tobacco seems pure tobacco.

I walked across the street today to Casey’s and saw a dusty package of tobacco in the check out line.

It was a double pack of Tin Star Yellow by Republic. $1.35 for two 10 gram packages.

Just to see, I rolled exactly 20 smokes from one package.

These taste like good Virginia tobacco rolled in a cigarrete, but it’s too mild, no zest, bland.

Better to chose a tobacco where they are proud enough to claim eight generations in the heart of Tobaccoland.

The oldest stories I can tell are six generations back.

Rouseco says they don’t use additives, for what that’s worth.


Dec 7, 2021
I thought RYOs were cigarette tobaccos that have all kinds of chemical additives and nicotine that are bad for you, while pipe tobaccos were more natural and had flavored casings to enhance flavor only. Is this correct or not correct ?
99.9% of pipe tobaccos have some sort of casing at the very least. Certain blenders don’t use PG on some of their blends but the vast majority do. Almost all of them are at least cased with something and the aromatics are topped. Even my favorite blend, Pegasus, which by the way has no PG, is at least cased to some degree.


Pipe Dreamer and Star Gazer
The oldest stories I can tell are six generations back.
When I was in my twenties, there was a game I'd play when I was at the bar with my friends. I lived in St. Charles at the time so that generally meant we were at Lewis and Clark's down in the old town district. We had a lot of good times there. My good friend Steve Metz and I along with many others would go around the table and play "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon".

Now I have know Steve since at least second grade. We've been good friends and it was Steve that got me into pipe smoking. I'd pick him up in the mornings at his house and we'd drive to Missouri University of St. Louis. He had a Dr. Grabow pipe and would smoke Capt. Black in the Student Union. That Captain Black had a whole lot of additives, but it was mighty popular, that's for sure. Eventually, Steve and I made our way to John Dengler's store and we bought some better grade pipes and in my way of thinking, some better tobacco. Turns out, one of the blends we got was Lane BCA, which is kinda like Captain Black if you think about it.

If we were playing the 6 degree game, that tobacco would only be two degrees away from Captain Black.

You can't always lead a horse to water. Some people say you can, but sometimes that horse will buck you off into the creek bed and head on back to the barn.

Steve, like that horse, wasn't much of a drinker. He didn't smoke RYO and as he matured, he got better pipes and smoked tobacco that had a better quality to it. Kinda like Kyra Sedgewick, you know, she eventually got to one degree of Kevin Bacon.

Anyway, Steve didn't like horses, but he sure liked his Captain Black and his trusty Dr. Grabow pipe. And unlike the horse, I still remember his name.

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When I had just won my newfound freedom as a driver, me and my buddies would drive to McDonalds after school. We'd all order a cheeseburger, fries, and a medium coke. Coke is what we Alabamians call any fountain drink, and my favorite coke was Mt Dew. When we would finish up those meals, we would feel all fat and satiated, and if we ever saw someone order two cheeseburgers, we knew they were headed for the fat farm. Now, we've biggie sized our fastfood to maximum portions and wash them down with tubs of coke. We've stretched our stomachs out to where a simple little cheese burger will leave us hungry and wanting more. We're a gluttonous nation of sloths, big, dumb, and slow.

What did any of that have to do with this thread? About as much as any of these other stories meant to be prompted by someone else's.

Six cows can sleep in Mr. Felter's barn, but seven horses can't. WTF. I always feel like I was tricked after I read a long winded yarn that only makes you forget what the poster is even responding too.