Eventful night of scotch, cigars

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This article was published 24/06/2019 (2617 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

You want to know what is a bad idea? I’d be happy to tell you what is a bad idea.

Using the lit end of a (bad word) fine cigar to immolate a mosquito that has just landed on your arm is a bad idea. A really bad idea.

That is just one of the important things I learned the other night when I attended the 17th annual Scotch and Cigar Appreciation Evening held in my buddy Dave’s backyard, which happens to be across the street from my buddy Bob’s house, if that makes any difference.

For the record, the mosquito made good his escape with only minor injuries, whereas a large circle of resplendent hair on my forearm was seriously singed.

As you have no doubt already deduced, it was a truly magical evening, wherein roughly 80 guys of my particular gender gathered in manly clots and engaged in two main recreational activities: blowing cigar smoke into each other’s faces, and blowing scotch fumes into each other’s faces.

Me (puffing a cloud of smoke in a buddy’s face): “Hey, how about that Jacob Trouba trade?”

My buddy: “Cough! Cough! Cough!”

I should stress here that I am not a smoker and, before health-conscious readers send me angry letters on their “I (heart) My Lungs” stationery, allow me to issue the following warning to young people: “Attention young people: do not smoke! It is bad for you and the next day, your tongue will feel as if you have dragged it along the floor of a New York subway train and your clothes will smell worse than the bottom of your hockey bag. Sincerely, Uncle Doug.”

The annual guys-only event in Dave’s backyard is the one and only time of year wherein I fire up a cigar. Earlier that day, I bravely visited a shopping-mall kiosk to obtain a couple of cigars the same size and shape as piano legs.

I do not want to get all Freudian on you, but no guy in his right mind wants to show up at a scotch-and-cigar evening with a smaller cigar than everyone else, if you catch my subtle psychoanalytical drift.

I have said it before and I will say it again, these evenings are the male equivalent of a baby shower, except instead of babies, we bring bottles of precious amber nectar that we reverently plop down on a sampling table literally groaning with half-empty bottles Dave has collected over the past 17 years.

I could point out that guys are probably even more protective of an expensive bottle of scotch than mothers are of slippery newborn babies, but I have decided not to do that.

My wife — She Who Must Not Be Named — always asks me what we guys talk about on scotch-and-cigar night, and I always tell her we share our innermost feelings, which is when she rolls her eyes and begins making unpleasant gagging sounds.

The unvarnished truth is, when guys get together at manly events of this nature, there are three main topics of conversation, namely: professional sports, amateur sports and naked people doing strange things.

At least that’s what happened in Dave’s backyard.

One of the cigar-puffing guys captivated our group with two tales involving guys doing strange things without the benefit of their clothing. For the record, I have no idea how this topic of conversation popped up.

In the first story, this fellow explained how he and some colleagues were looking out the windows of their downtown office building not long ago when they spotted a man and a woman in the middle of an argument.

At one point, apparently, the guy became exasperated, which he demonstrated by removing his shirt, pants and shoes, then trudging away indignantly wearing only his underpants.

The second story was even more dramatic and involved some people filling their cars with gas when — suddenly and without warning — a naked guy walked past them, went into the gas station and eventually emerged toting only a family-sized bag of chips, which didn’t do enough to block their view.

Fortunately, a Good Samaritan was present and, in the trunk of that helpful person’s car, was a load of old clothing destined for a charity store, some of which the Samaritan offered to the naked man, who put them on and wandered away, happily eating chips.

Which prompted me to comment: “So, the moral of the story is if you go to a gas station in the nude, people will give you free chips and pants?”

The storyteller replied: “Yes, that’s pretty much it.”

As it is every year, the highlight of the evening came in the form of three kilt-clad members of the famed Winnipeg Police pipe band — two bagpipers and a drummer — who serenaded us with traditional Scottish tunes that woke up the neighbours and turned many of us scotch-swilling, cigar-puffing modern men into misty-eyed puddles of goo.

Most guys I know get a chill up their spine when they hear the skirl of the bagpipes. It seems to be different with women.

“There is only one decent bagpipe song in the world,” one of Dave’s lovely daughters explained to me. “It’s the one that goes Dum Dum Dee Dum Dum Dum Dum!”

I think she was talking about Scotland the Brave, but I wasn’t able to find out because right then, I was too busy trying to scorch a mosquito, which, as I mentioned earlier, is not a good idea.

doug.speirs@freepress.mb.ca