55.3 F

Davis, California

Saturday, April 13, 2024

Column: Chewing tobacco

I feel like I forgot how to write. I think it’s because I’m no longer chilling out next to the newspaper crease, which is making me feel out of my element.

I spent most of this break dazed and confused in San Luis Obispo as I ate bomber sandwiches from Gus’s, flew green kites and drank shitty Barefoot wine. Aside from that – and running around in my underwear at The Pirate Cove nude beach – there wasn’t much going on. Actually, my friend Loaf and I got buried in the sand. Which, for those of you who haven’t been buried in the sand, makes you feel like your heart is about to explode.

Or maybe I’ve been dazed and confused because I had an experimental run-in with chewing tobacco – or “dip,” as they call it. I tried it two Saturdays ago, on the day I had to write my final paper for Philosophy 178 (which was worth 100 percent of my grade – a lot of pressure, obviously). And I have to admit, the experience was pretty ethereal.

It was borne out of my desire to finish my paper with some flair. Flair is synonymous with Nicotine in most parts of the South, so I threw caution to the wind and took a ride down Nicotine lane. What better chemical than Nicotine to help me finish my paper? Nicotine is one of America’s favorite drugs – aside from caffeine (which is still a drug, people) – and it comes in a tiny, tubular (gnarly, brah!) receptacle called a cigarette.

But I didn’t care for cigarettes. I wanted something foul to stick in my mouth. So I opted for chewing tobacco – Copenhagen pouches, to be exact. They look like little mini bags of shit. Literally. And it smells like a rotting vagina. What does rotting vagina smell like? Good question. Take the original smell of vagina, which is a potent combo of sour milk and wet pennies, and then have it rot in a bag so people can gently nestle into their fat, lower lips.

I was debating between “Copenhagen” and the “Grizzly” brand of chewing tobacco. But then I realized I didn’t drive a massive Ford truck with rusted barrels in the trunk and a bumper sticker that says, “Welcome to America – Now Speak English” next to another that reads, “Bomb their ass and take their gas” and a picture of Calvin from Calvin and Hobbes praying to Christ, our Lord and Savior. (I must say I love the quaint juxtaposition between the slaughtering of innocent children and Christ. It always makes me feel warm.) Oh – and it would also have a fading bumper sticker on the back window that barely reads, “Impeach Clinton.”

In the end, it’s all about speed. We need more, we need it now and we can’t stop. Fuck yeah. Give us a shit load of caffeine, soda, cigarettes, cocaine, adderall or whatever fucking thing that launches us into the stratosphere so we can get loaded enough to finish our shit just in time to watch Simon Cowell browbeat attractive singers in his massively deep V-neck muscle shirt.

Putting the Copenhagen pouch in my mouth felt odd, however, dare I say slightly satisfying. The tight pressure against my bottom lip coupled with the tickle on my bottom gums was beyond compare.

But for every high, there is most definitely an equally shitty low. The juice from the bag of rotting vagina was slowly making its way down my throat despite my furious attempts to eject the slime from my body. It felt like I was drinking the most nasty-ass tequila this side of the Mexican border. I was spitting like a mad man into a stray old red cup that was lying on the ping pong table at my friend’s house that had rotting beer in it (or, in actuality, more fermented beer).

Alas, my furious spitting did not help the situation … I was on a fucking cloud. I started floating away as I read the incoherent writing on my Macbook. It was all a dream now. Ice cold sweat started to run down my forehead and (oddly enough) I felt like I had to take a shit – not the best feelings to combine, in my opinion.

The feeling was so heavy that I had to lie prone on the couch until I could get out of my stupor. I was floating through molasses and there wasn’t a dern thing I could do to stop it.

I ended up getting an A on the paper.

DAVE KARIMI has been playing Pokémon Soul Silver all break. He is now trying to beat the Elite 4, but Lance is being a stubborn bitch right now. How is it fair that you can use a full restore on a fucking Dragonite during battle? Shoot him an e-mail at dkarimi@ucdavis.edu to vent about your Pokémon struggles.


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