Dear Smoker,
Let me introduce myself. I am a cigarette. I come in many colors; many shapes and sizes all wrapped in beautifully designed packages to look desirable. I have a definite purpose in mind. . To control those who are willing to try me for size. You see, I have the art of trickery that is most unusual, to say the least. I’m always shown, as being the cool thing to do… to enhance your romance, to show you how to enjoy the best that life has to offer. You see I have quite a story to tell.
I willingly ruin life and destroy all I can. . The heart, the lungs. It doesn’t matter. I will take my toll. I am popular, to say the least. Just listen to what I have to say and you will agree. I’m taken to the best parties, honored by the highest in esteem. I’m hung onto, closer than a spouse is. I am treasured beyond belief. People will leave their homes in the middle of the night to come and find me. . . . But they wouldn’t do the same for a carton of milk. My servants will rummage through the garbage to find a piece of me long enough for just one more puff.
So what if their fingers get dirty from the ashes and the filth I leave behind. It doesn’t matter what lifestyle someone may have. They are my servants and I’m the master of all smokers in the land. Just take my hand and let me show you around.
I’m the boss, and, Honey, I’m the first thing you’ll reach for in the morning. I’m the last thing you’ll tell ‘goodnight’. You are mine and I have claimed more lives than anything else around has. Just count the houses I’ve burned down over the years. I’m an arsonist that can’t be arrested. Isn’t that funny. I don’t miss the slaves I lose by fires like that. I’ve got plenty more. And fires make such a lovely light. They really turn me on. No one blames me directly. You, slave, are responsible, not me.
After all, my makers are big business. They employ thousands. So I’m really a good guy, right! The government profits by millions of dollars by taxing my sale. My slaves willingly pay I even make big bucks for the advertising agencies that present me as a positive influence in the world. The advertisers make me look beautiful and desirable. They make great pimps. I’ve come a long way, Baby… to hook you.
The cost! It doesn’t matter. After all, my slaves only think in terms of the price of a pack or a carton. They don’t think in terms of the commutative cost over the years. They could have paid for two cars with the money they fork over to me in twenty years. They could put someone through college. But it’s not all one way. They get plenty from me: the constant hacking cough, the embarrassing holes in their clothes and furniture, the lonely aroma of stale butts and smoke that hangs around their hair and their homes and the beautiful yellow stains that adorn their fingers. And, of course the frequent coronaries and cancer cases that claim far more lives than any other drug.
But don’t you worry. I always kill the other guy. After all, we’re friends aren’t we? But don’t you fret over me being blamed for your death. It will never come out that we have such an intimate relationship. Your death certificate will state that you died from all natural causes. It won’t by mentioned at all. I won’t even miss you because I have so many slaves.
After all, you’re willing to let me be the boss of your life because you continue to pay the cost. So keep smoking me in front of your children and continue to fight for the right to infuse your body with my subtle poisons so that when you pass on, for whatever reason, you will have left me behind for your children to enjoy. Believe me, I’ll take care of them too.
Sincerely,
