shine ON!!!

I find class to be the single most important thing in all of the entire universe. How do I embody this intergalactic importance? Well, for starters, I make custom blends of tobacco and thusly I do not “chainsmoke” but “indulge in a robust leaf.” I also age anything and everything. And even I eat organic eggs.

I once knew a man who said I had taught him that “you can do whatever the hell you want as long as you do it classy.” That sentiment touched me deeply and if I hadn’t thrown up only seconds later from a classy overindulgence in Drambuie, I probably would have shook his hand and/or offered him a finely scented business card. But even though I did throw up on those church steps that didn’t make his statement any less true or my utter classiness less real. For you see, classiness isn’t just crystal-like chandeliers and radishes pealed to resemble roses, it’s also a way of life that shows others that you are aware. Aware of yourself, your surrounding and others. Aware even when you’re so blitz out of your mind, you have no idea what the hell is going on. This, of course, takes much practice.

Now I will be the first to admit I haven’t always been able to comport myself in a classy way. In the past, I’ve let the circumstances get the better of me, but the classy gentleman always learns from his mistakes and I can safely say I can now be classy in any circumstances at all. I can make lighting a cigarette end found in the gutter look like caramelizing a creme brule. I am the Abelard of anonymous threatening notes to public officials. And at no point in recent memory did my classiness come more to my rescue than a few nights previous.

I had just gotten home from a long day at work and was informed that I would be joining a bunch of girls who were going out to eat fried fish and drink beers garnished with cirtus fruits. Classiness however demanded otherwise.

Working Boy: It wouldn’t be classy.
Wife: Why?
W.B: Oh, a myriad of reasons.
W: Where did you find that cigarette?
W.B: Not in a gutter if that’s what you’re thinking.
W: Why would I think that?
W.B: No reason.
W: So are you coming?
W.B: Not so much.

After freeing myself from the shackles of a public outing, I retired to the living room where I worked on my magnum opus and drank wine from the bottle. I was like that guy who wrote books and drank wine and smoked. It had all the makings of the greatest night in the history of this Working Boy.

By 9'o clock everything was coming up roses. The wine was drunkening me. The country music playing on the hi-fi was making me poetical. And, most importantly, the unseasonable warmth allowed me to enjoy all of this in my underwear.

That’s when the women returned from the bar....