Holiday In Cuba

Steven Robert Allen
1 min read
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My man Greg laid a genuine Cuban cigar on me yesterday, and I smoked it. Yeah, that's right. You heard me, Alberto Gonzalez. I smoked it. And what's more, I enjoyed smoking it. It was goo … oo … ood. I do believe it was the finest cigar I've ever smoked. I certainly enjoyed it more than I've ever enjoyed a cigar. You following me, Alberto? I don't give a crap about your stinkin' embargo, dude. Look, I hate commie dictators as much as the next guy. I really do. Fidel's a prick. I'll grant you that. But if my man Greg gives me a genuine grade A Cuban cigar handrolled from the finest tobacco on God's green earth, do you really think I'm going to refuse it based on some kind of loony, half-baked principle? No damn way! Sure, as I was huffin' and puffin' I momentarily fought the urge to order an execution. (“Up against the wall, you filthy traitors to the peasant class!”) But it passed. I feel fine now. Not a trace of guilt. Nada. I'm taping that cigar band to my fridge.
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