Comedy: Comedy: Twigs Cure Addiction

0

I am on twigs. I’ve tried Malibu, nail-biting and sex with mutants to quit smoking but now I am on essence of twig.   If you immerse twigs in hot water and then watch Gone With the Wind once or listen to Cole Porter’s I Hate Men 96 times, a twig brew is created. It calms the smoker’s angst. It steals the will to smoke.

I found them in a Marylebone shop where Prince Charles gets his back rubbed. “Please cure me of smoking,” I screamed at the banks of vitamin supplements and colonic irrigation guides. “Twigs,” smiled a man behind a counter. They grow in India and are packaged in Stanmore. They look like goat shit. I put them in a cupboard between the matzo flour and the breadcrumbs. I forgot about them.

Last week I visited the cupboard. A fly flew out of the breadcrumb jar. The twigs waited. They said best before end December 2004. Even my twigs have expired, I moaned. I added them to a glass of boiling water.

Two hundred and twenty-two minutes of Scarlett’s lies later – “I love you. I’ve always loved you. I’ve never loved anyone else” – I inspected the twig water. It was exactly the same as water combined with fag butt. It had a floater; a woodlouse was suspended, upside down. The packet said: “Being a natural product of the earth, it should be cleaned before use.” I took out the louse and gave it honourable burial in an orange skin.

I picked up the water. It smelt like an Uzbek ditch.

I opened my throat like an anaconda regarding a Fulham child and drank. It took three seconds to go down. It took two to come back. Bile is astringent, so I mopped the kitchen floor with the regurgitated twig water. I didn’t feel relaxed, but the floor gleamed.

The experience reminded me of my attempts to harvest opium from my mother’s garden poppies, aged nine. I made incisions in the flowers and rubbed the oozing sap on to Silk Cuts. The hallucinations were interesting. I saw ants. You get high on anything if you believe, even biscuits.

Twig therapy failed me. I burnt the protagonists in the garden. I decanted the woodlouse from its orange grave and hurled it on to the pyre. The woodlouse was a sacrifice for my sins, I thought, as I lit a Marlboro from its tiny, flaming corpse.

This article was Originally written by:Tanya Gold

The Guardian

http://www.guardian.co.uk/smoking/Story/0,2763,1392772,00.html


 

A collection of humor articles from Forces International
http://www.forces.org/humor/humour.htm

Leave A Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

This website uses cookies to improve your experience. We'll assume you're ok with this, but you can opt-out if you wish. Accept Read More