smoker who admitted she never, ever smoked a cigarette that she didn’t know
couldhurt her. How, how,
HOW
can a woman who has picked up a cigarette, put it in her mouth, set it on fire, and smoked it—then repeated the action fifty
times a day, every single day, for twenty-seven years—how can that woman look at a jury and say, “But wait—it was an accident”?
This is a claim of victimhood that ranks up there with Bill Clinton blaming his pants problem on Ken Starr (true story) and
former Symbionese Liberation Army bomber Kathleen Soliah claiming to be a victim of the 9/11 terrorist attacks (true and sickening
story). You could only get away with this nonsense in a Redneck Nation.
Worse than the “victims” of the right to smoke are the Smoke Nazis who dream of living in a world where we have no rights
at all.
Across the Great Northern America, liberal communities like Los Angeles and Montgomery County, Maryland, have banned smoking
outdoors at public parks. Why? To protect the “victims” of secondhand smoke, of course. Only one problem: When it comes to
smoking outdoors, there
are
no victims of secondhand smoke. Outdoor smoking may annoy you, but not even the most extreme Smoke Nazi has presented evidence
that the dangers of secondhand smoke extend into the ionosphere.
Not to be outdone, in 2001, the same Montgomery County (an enclave of northern-style liberalism) passed an ordinance that
would have essentially banned smoking in the privacy of your own home. Under this new county regulation, if you were sitting
in front of the TV having a cigarette and your neighbor could even smell it, he could call the county EPA and you would be
exposed to a fine of up to $750.
After a bombardment of international mockery, this ludicrous law was laughed into oblivion. When folks asked how any legislative
body could criminalize smoking in one’s own home, an angry Montgomery County councilman insisted the law was perfectly reasonable:
“This does not say that you cannot smoke in your house. What it does say is that your smoke cannot cross property lines.”
In other words, oxygen tents make good neighbors.
Now, I know that if I smoke enough cigarettes, they could kill me. And I know that if someone locked you and me together in
an unventilated room, my smoke might—I repeat,
might
—kill you. But nobody has ever demonstrated that if I wrap myself in Red Man chewing tobacco, sit down in my fireplace, and
set myself ablaze, it’s going to give you so much as a mild cough in your house across the street.
Who is the victim of a smoker lighting up in his own living room? Whom are the self-righteous Smoke Nazis protecting this
time? Aha! This is where the southern victim value system really kicks in. In the world of rednecks, you don’t have to prove
you’re a victim. You simply declare yourself one, and the wheels of the world grind to a halt.
What a warped sense of justice we have when the working stiff sitting on his sofa watching
All in the Family
and smoking a Lucky is the oppressor, and the paranoiac upstairs sniffing the air vents and calling the cops is the victim.
And if the guy upstairs feels victimized by my neighbor’s cigarettes, wait until he smells my Macanudo. Or my mother’s corned
beef and cabbage. Or me, after
eating
my mom’s corned beef and cabbage…
Then there’s my dad’s cheap aftershave, my baby’s poopy diaper, and my dog’s various odiferous events. (I don’t actually have
a dog, but I could get one if you keep calling the cigarette cops, you jerk.)
All of this, inspired by hypersensitive simps who never once had to demonstrate that, by reasonable standards, they had been
victimized in any way.
Right down the street from Montgomery County is our nation’s capital. It was there that a government employee lost his job
for using the word “niggardly” correctly in a sentence. A couple of fellow employees—who happened to be both black
couldhurt her. How, how,
HOW
can a woman who has picked up a cigarette, put it in her mouth, set it on fire, and smoked it—then repeated the action fifty
times a day, every single day, for twenty-seven years—how can that woman look at a jury and say, “But wait—it was an accident”?
This is a claim of victimhood that ranks up there with Bill Clinton blaming his pants problem on Ken Starr (true story) and
former Symbionese Liberation Army bomber Kathleen Soliah claiming to be a victim of the 9/11 terrorist attacks (true and sickening
story). You could only get away with this nonsense in a Redneck Nation.
Worse than the “victims” of the right to smoke are the Smoke Nazis who dream of living in a world where we have no rights
at all.
Across the Great Northern America, liberal communities like Los Angeles and Montgomery County, Maryland, have banned smoking
outdoors at public parks. Why? To protect the “victims” of secondhand smoke, of course. Only one problem: When it comes to
smoking outdoors, there
are
no victims of secondhand smoke. Outdoor smoking may annoy you, but not even the most extreme Smoke Nazi has presented evidence
that the dangers of secondhand smoke extend into the ionosphere.
Not to be outdone, in 2001, the same Montgomery County (an enclave of northern-style liberalism) passed an ordinance that
would have essentially banned smoking in the privacy of your own home. Under this new county regulation, if you were sitting
in front of the TV having a cigarette and your neighbor could even smell it, he could call the county EPA and you would be
exposed to a fine of up to $750.
After a bombardment of international mockery, this ludicrous law was laughed into oblivion. When folks asked how any legislative
body could criminalize smoking in one’s own home, an angry Montgomery County councilman insisted the law was perfectly reasonable:
“This does not say that you cannot smoke in your house. What it does say is that your smoke cannot cross property lines.”
In other words, oxygen tents make good neighbors.
Now, I know that if I smoke enough cigarettes, they could kill me. And I know that if someone locked you and me together in
an unventilated room, my smoke might—I repeat,
might
—kill you. But nobody has ever demonstrated that if I wrap myself in Red Man chewing tobacco, sit down in my fireplace, and
set myself ablaze, it’s going to give you so much as a mild cough in your house across the street.
Who is the victim of a smoker lighting up in his own living room? Whom are the self-righteous Smoke Nazis protecting this
time? Aha! This is where the southern victim value system really kicks in. In the world of rednecks, you don’t have to prove
you’re a victim. You simply declare yourself one, and the wheels of the world grind to a halt.
What a warped sense of justice we have when the working stiff sitting on his sofa watching
All in the Family
and smoking a Lucky is the oppressor, and the paranoiac upstairs sniffing the air vents and calling the cops is the victim.
And if the guy upstairs feels victimized by my neighbor’s cigarettes, wait until he smells my Macanudo. Or my mother’s corned
beef and cabbage. Or me, after
eating
my mom’s corned beef and cabbage…
Then there’s my dad’s cheap aftershave, my baby’s poopy diaper, and my dog’s various odiferous events. (I don’t actually have
a dog, but I could get one if you keep calling the cigarette cops, you jerk.)
All of this, inspired by hypersensitive simps who never once had to demonstrate that, by reasonable standards, they had been
victimized in any way.
Right down the street from Montgomery County is our nation’s capital. It was there that a government employee lost his job
for using the word “niggardly” correctly in a sentence. A couple of fellow employees—who happened to be both black
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