April 2004 (v6 i5)
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Ever since I started smoking
A chronicle of a smooth and flavorful life
by Earl K. Dixie, Cigarette Retailer

I was six. My mom smoked. My dad smoked. Four brothers, nine sisters, 16 uncles, 15 aunts, grandpappy, granny, two dogs, a cat, and one parrot all smoked. Then, one fateful weekend at a family barbecue, one of my cousins let me take my first drag of what was not only my birthright, but what would become my very life force: delicious tobacco.

Like a miracle Id never before witnessed, great things began to happen to me. My fingers trembled, my chest quivered, and my lungs burned. It was like I was breathing in a cloud of fine, fantastic particles. My head was filled with static electricity, it tickled my bowels and made me have to urinate. It was unreal, immaterial, and transitory. For the first time in my vapid life I felt alive because I could finally breathe.

Between the ages of six and seven, I did a lot of searching. I knew what I wanted. I loved the gritty aftermath of a good smoke. Id swallow down the smutty spit that welled in my mouth like it was fruit juice. Id sit and sniff my sooty fingers for hours. When Id smelled it all away, Id light up another ciggy. I tried them all. I smoked cheroots, panatellas, and cigarillos. I sampled menthols from the pack, or I rolled my own filterless. I dabbled in chewing tobacco for a time, but it seemed almost sinful to spit what was dearest to me on the dirt.

When I turned 19, I dropped out of high school and joined the Army to fight the war in Vietnam. It turned out that having smoked two packs a day for 12 years had developed my body into a resilient physique. While I had constant shortness of breath, I made up for it not with athleticism, but with endurance from actually smoking more. My body became a fuming flue, immune to any trap the jungle had in store for me. My psyche was no less than consummate against the fate-falls and teargas that awaited our tours in the Delta, Da Nang and the other pits of hell that Charlie had waiting for us along the East Coast of the Indochinese Peninsula. I incinerated hundreds of communist North Vietnamese families and was offered two distinguished medals of honor, including a Purple Heart for the cauterization my lips sustained from my own cigs.

Back home, my family and town celebrated my return. Everyone lit their cigarettes off the candles on my birthday cake. I was 21 and ready to move on with my life. I put my army boots to rest and picked up a briefcase, starting out on what I always knew I was great at: salesmanship.

I started selling cigarettes for one of those famous cig companies you always hear about, door to door. I explained to people how smoking had enriched my life and even made me a war hero. I encouraged families to start their kids out right and as young as possible. I handed out packs as free promotional items at ballparks and carnivals.

This leads me to what I do now. I own my own cig company. I market and retail these amazing products throughout the heartland of this great nation. I give to people at generous prices what beggars cant bum off you for free. I give em hope and clarity. I give the American people a light.
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