Stoopid Human Tricks

So, there I was... lying back comfortably in my dental hygienist's chair yesterday while she went on about her bid'niz when she remarked "that's quite the cold sore you've got on your upper lip," or words to that effect.  "It's not a cold sore," sez I, "it's a self-inflicted wound," adding "I'll tell ya the story if you swear this will go no further..."  "My lips are sealed," sez she.

You long time Gentle Readers know two things: (a) I loves me my cigars and (b) I've been on full-time oxygen for about a year now.  Cigars are unlike cigarettes in that you can smoke the things right down to the point where they're short enough to burn your fingers.  Like about an inch or less in length, is what we're talking about.  A couple o' nights ago we were watching the hockey game and trying our best to get down to that very last drop of cigar goodness when I literally set myself on fire.  The reason?  I got a little TOO blasé about smoking my cigars while hooked up to the oxygen machine and the resulting fireball that enveloped my head when I took that last draw got my attention RIGHT quick.  The damage was slight... just a superficial burn on my upper lip and a small hole right in the center of my mustache, which combed right out and looked none the worse for wear.  It coulda been worse, as they say.  A lot worse.

So.  Lesson learned, the hard way.  You'd THINK a guy my age would be smart enough to know better but you'd be wrong.  We do now, though.

So now it's out to the verandah for a brew and a cigar.  Without the oxygen, thank ya.