Can someone kill all the Tobacco Virgins please? Seriously, that would be a favor!

There is nothing that bugs me more these days. And something that bugs me most, and when I least want to have a face off with it, is something that I’m cursed to bump into time and again, day after day.

That is, until the seven days (or more) of bad luck is over and till such time I have like gotten used to the darned decked faces of the not-nifty-but-what’s-the-harm-in-pretending tobacco virgins who feel so like a candy sucked and put back in a gleaming wrapper gifted to the that sexy-but-ugly-on-the-inside plastic chick in school who thinks that being cool is her territory even when she so sucks at it!

Okay – focus.

I hate them Tobacco Virgins. They are such a shame! In fact I hate all the pseudo vice virgins, they are so disconcerting. They distract me and make me lose focus. It’s something like this – when you’re faking it, it shows right? And that is bad. And it’s worse because you’re faking it just so a few more pairs of eyes turn around and glue their focus on to your what-appear-to-me-as-your-spastic-talon-ed fingers, trying to hard to grab a cigarette in various fashionable angles, making you appear more fake than you care to admit!

Someone tell me why do they do it at all?

Picture this – we frequent this café. It’s a nice cool place where a lot of firungs hang out. Needless to say you see all varieties of people there. And this place is home to me – a stone’s throw away from where I live and I practically walk into that place with my feet bathroom slippers clad – okay, I really don’t care – I have more trouble trying to get comfortable with myself every other morning/night I wake up – I couldn’t care less if my feet-sans-fashionable-accessories bothers people!

So, you see a huge variety of people haunt that place. Now there are the regular ones – they make me feel most home on the planet – they’re like me. They come there to have coffee, drive away the blues and try to get, once more in sync with the human population after having spent some ageless (they feel so) nights, afternoons and mornings holing up in their burrows.

These people love to watch others. They are mostly either alone or they keep coming back with the same bunch of indifferent, somnolent people who have ‘yea, you’re alive? So am I? What’s the big deal anyway – tell me something new, will ya?’ written in bold across their bored, sometimes piercing eyes. These guys are the silent lot. They don’t chatter. They mostly keep quite and sip on their mochas, lattes, whatever, mostly because they have nothing much left to discuss.

The most elevated lot, the way I see it.

Then there are the irregular ones. Some faces are known and the others, well strangers. These people are the okay sort, normal folks. One evening they decide to hang around in this part of the city and they wanted to eat or whatever and they find this place and they get comfortable here. They’re not loud either. They talk amongst themselves and they’re the semi elite ones; mostly because they will still look around and try to eavesdrop on the silence of the bored ones and then ‘stare’. But they get over it quickly and they get on with their lives.

I’m okay with them. And they’re okay with me, I guess. We have nothing in common except the listless ennui that we commonly share amongst the preening of the ‘chickbrigade’ that follows forth shortly.

Okay – now here comes the worst part – and believe me this category of people steals the ugly little fucked up show. Enter – the infamous chick brigade. And that includes the pseudo females chicks trying so hard to be ‘chic’ and worse, the semi-male, semi-human version of the male kind who shave their chests and carry a pony and their cell phones are stuck in holsters on their tight fitting pants; the bulges of their semi toned thighs peep out like ugly contours of a ghastly, decaying piece of rotting flesh clad in striped and blotchy jean – okay jean in blue in color – and the brand is Lee, Gap or Levi. That’s it. That’s non negotiable.

These semi metro whatever males, if they’re not trapped in tight fitting, stitched on their skin apparels, will then be visible in them pseudogangsta variety of huge jean that’s slung so low on their girly waists that you can puke all over yourself a couple of times over and still feel sick! – You don’t want to look at their thong variety of underwear. Seriously dude, you’re not interested.

Anyhow, the males or the half baked variety of them can go fly a kite. It’s the ladies, and the distressingly pseudo variety of them that’s so painful.

Picture this – they’re mostly ganging up in groups of not less than four. They’re loud and they’re garish. Mostly they’re gangly or stick thin – often real short – with not so neat, but fashionably done hair smelling of oranges, lavender or lime. And they’re flashy, barely dressed, often in skirts, short, long, tight fitting, loose. Sometimes they will wear pencil jean with nauseatingly teeny tops with their frontal assets (which are like, obviously not well endowed) miserably trying to glare out their ripped up tops. They will be all decked up – mostly have nowhere to go – so they haunt the places with maximum mileage, maximum scope of visibility. They’re mostly between the age group of seventeen to twenty one – and they’re mostly new to the city. They’re high on parties, pop and smoke. And they’re not hitched. And that’s as bad a sign as it can get.

Go figure.

So what about this teen brigade? Well, they will make a loud entry – the leader of the pack and she happens to be the loudest, flashiest of them all – she will be like ‘oohhh… this is sooooo kewl – with excessive emphasis on the K – *giggles* - mumbles something barely audible in the ears of her nudist female counter parts – and goes on a giggle spree yet again – mostly, I think she has noticed a bunch of grumpy looking, sour guys brooding in a corner – obviously, mostly they are the first category people and they don’t even know that girls like the ones being mentioned here exist. But then the chick brigade doesn’t know that, do they?

So, this sacrilegious bunch goes and plants their fleshless butts in the position of maximum mileage – and then begins a series of most uncomfortable events – now one of them, she’s gonna go on to try to settle her stick thin leg on top of another – and while she does so, she exposes a bit of what could have been fascinating but isn’t due to the cause of sheer emaciation – mostly for the benefit of the bony little guys going around serving orders!

There, that’s the audience they have but the chick brigade never cares do they?

Onto the sacrilege – then, one of them babies will sigh loudly – ‘aahh…’ you’re forced to turn around and tire your senses trying to figure out what the hell happened and you will realize that you have processed the first part of that lament – something like – ‘you know he…’ – obviously, guy trouble – but the guy is missing in action – and then that’s another thing – then, one of the subtler ones – yea, those ones usually have some hope, for a revival – she will fumble for something in her loud, obviously purse – green, studded with a huge silver buckle – or a bow, or a metal stars, whatever – she will fumble a little more, while her friends dig their heads together and loudly discuss what is it that they would want to pick on – mostly they end up sharing a couple of dishes – eating out wasn’t their plan in the first place – so while the other three order – this one woman tosses a box of cigarettes onto the table – ‘shhh’ – reverential silence – all four give each other eye and then the leader – she straightens up her back – tows her bony feet off the another, settles her short denim skirt, hitches up her spaghetti a bit higher off her tummy, sucks her stomach in so that her you-know-what shines through – sigh – and she rises off the chair, mistress of all she surveys – she’s looking out for a fancy guy to lend her a light – strange how these girls smoke but never carry a lighter – okay, a match box – for God’s sake – and strange how this story repeats all over again, and again.

There that’s why I hate tobacco virgins. And these babes are exactly what put the veteran brand of cigarette lovers to shame. They put up such a dull show –

1. They make you feel so embarrassed that you’re born a girl. You might as well wish to have been born a man.
2. They are so psycho – they smoke and gyrate and drink because they think that’s cool – they don’t even know how to smoke – they’re the lousy chicken variety that go ‘poof poof poof’ wasting precious smoke and causing grievous injury to the stock of precious tobacco on earth.

What a waste.

Now last straw – this is what they do – flick a cigarette from the pack – ask an okay looking kind of guy for a light – the guy ain’t interested but he’s generous – he offer to even light the cigarette for them while its still stuck dangerously between the girl’s painted pinched lips – wow – she looks so cool yea? – well in all my years I haven’t seen a true girl accepting a light that way – not even the bitchy variety who love to hit on all and sundry because they think that’s how FUN’s spelt. No real girl does that, period.

Then, the CB will sigh collectively and thank the guy profusely – he grunts in return and goes back to his thing – there, then starts the rape of bohemia – the CB will pucker their lips – their fingers are contorted in weird angles – get a life! – their eyes will roll over – and they will flick their bangs and start giggling viciously – aargh – now the CB must have heard their seniors quip – everyone’s heard this old wives tale atleast once in their miserable lives– that if you wanna have sex with someone, you blow cigarette smoke in their face – and they do just that – lock eyes with a unsuspecting bloke and not break eye contact and they go *poof poof poof* - its so clear – short bursts of smoke spiral out their mouths while their noses scrunch up in distaste – what a shame – cigarette lovers spew smoke from their noses yea, that’s the way they do smoke – and this CB bunch is such a disgrace. And I don’t even want to mention how they never use an ash tray and flick ash all over the place. Pity they don’t mix it with their colas and drink it all because another old wives tale goes that mixing cig. ash with a drink makes it yummier. *barf* whatever.

Count on them to delude themselves into believing that what they’re doing here is a covert orgy of sorts and their half warm cola is a shot of intoxicating ambrosia.

They’re such a bunch of losers, the Tobacco Virgins. Such a waste! Disgrace!

Sigh

Wateverrrrrrr!!!