Having returned to piping after several false starts, I was excited to snap up a few tins and pouches of tobacco I'd known and loved before, and because burley goes with morning coffee like PB with J, naturally I had to snag up some SWR original.
Now I'd smoked and enjoyed it before, and I am aware it's a bit on the dry side. Perhaps in my eagerness I overlooked the fact that the pipe scooped with an audible crunch sound like a soup ladle through cat litter. Perhaps I neglected to note the pouch note was precisely zero. I believe I even heard the gasp of a mummy's curse wafting up from that fabled black and orange folio, but by then I'd grabbed my coffee mug and hot-footed it to the porch.
This was all a Terrible Mistake. Upon touching a gentle flame to my awaiting Missouri Meerschaum, there was an audible coughing boom like an old Bofors gun, and a plume of hot caustic smoke exploded throughout my mouth and sinus cavities. I've never attempted to French-kiss the exhaust pipe of an idling tugboat but that was the general mouthfeel. The retrohale was somewhere between a slice of onion that fell through the grill onto the coals and a tomcat peeing on a steam radiator.
Aghast, I ripped the pipe from my lips and let it go out. After several minutes, when the cob stopped glowing like a plugged catalytic converter, I cautiously dug into the cinders and found that my entire codger-scooped bowlful had burned spang through like Visco fuse.
What I'm getting at is, this pouch was dryer than Amish phone sex. I shall rehydrate this pouch and bring it back to the proper case, but I can't help but feel that somewhere, Sir Walter Raleigh's decidedly detached head is snickering a little.
Now I'd smoked and enjoyed it before, and I am aware it's a bit on the dry side. Perhaps in my eagerness I overlooked the fact that the pipe scooped with an audible crunch sound like a soup ladle through cat litter. Perhaps I neglected to note the pouch note was precisely zero. I believe I even heard the gasp of a mummy's curse wafting up from that fabled black and orange folio, but by then I'd grabbed my coffee mug and hot-footed it to the porch.
This was all a Terrible Mistake. Upon touching a gentle flame to my awaiting Missouri Meerschaum, there was an audible coughing boom like an old Bofors gun, and a plume of hot caustic smoke exploded throughout my mouth and sinus cavities. I've never attempted to French-kiss the exhaust pipe of an idling tugboat but that was the general mouthfeel. The retrohale was somewhere between a slice of onion that fell through the grill onto the coals and a tomcat peeing on a steam radiator.
Aghast, I ripped the pipe from my lips and let it go out. After several minutes, when the cob stopped glowing like a plugged catalytic converter, I cautiously dug into the cinders and found that my entire codger-scooped bowlful had burned spang through like Visco fuse.
What I'm getting at is, this pouch was dryer than Amish phone sex. I shall rehydrate this pouch and bring it back to the proper case, but I can't help but feel that somewhere, Sir Walter Raleigh's decidedly detached head is snickering a little.
