Have you ever wondered what makes a truly enjoyable web site?
Is it practical, up-to-date information? Is it a successful blending of photos, text, and graphical elements? Is it having vast military experience, a passionate belief in God, and a secret hideaway in southern Italy?
Yes, it is.
Please join me in saluting Pat Freestone’s first ever
It seems I have gotten myself into a bit of hot water with the good people at Lost and Frowned, the official hosts of yours truly.
Apparently, when I signed on as a Lost and Frowned constituent, I voluntarily prohibited myself from using the space to promote any other web site or affiliate. With yesterday’s referral link to donalan.com, I seem to have done just that. Thus, in accordance with my web hosting contract, I must now use "Today Inside Pat Freestone Updated Almost Daily" to advertise Newport® brand mentholated cigarettes from now until November of 2035.
Oh, well. I knew it was too good to be true.
Alive with Pleasure,
November 1, 2002
November 4, 2002
November 5, 2002
November 6, 2002
November 7, 2002
November 8, 2002
In the future, everyone will be a smoker for 15 minutes.
November 11, 2002
November 13, 2002
November 14, 2002
It's all good,
November 15, 2002
November 19, 2002
It seems I have gotten myself into a bit of hot water with the good people at Newport Brand Cigarettes.
Apparently, without so much as a how-do-you-do, Newport has rescinded their sponsorship agreement with Lost and Frowned, Inc., and threatened me with litigation. It has come to my attention that for some reason, the management of the Newport Cigarette Company has been somewhat put off by my "unsolicited" suggestions and customer feedback. To put it another way, they are a bunch of ungrateful cunts.
Which is not to say they don't make an excellent cigarette. In fact, it is precisely the quality and craftsmanship that the makers of Newport Brand Mentholated Cigarettes put into their products that started this whole fracas in the first place.
Let me explain:
Until two weeks ago, I had never smoked a cigarette in my entire life. To Pat Freestone, cigarettes were a no-how, no-way affair from the get-go. All I knew about tobacco was that it got you hooked, turned your teeth yellow, and then eventually gave you cancer while you burned to death in bed.
What a dupe I have been.
You see, when I was mandated to restructure Today Inside Pat Freestone Updated Almost Daily to advertise Newport, Newport Mediums, Newport Lights, Newport 100's, Newport Medium 100's and Newport Light 100's Mentholated Cigarettes, I had no choice but to throw caution to the wind and sample the product myself. I was terrified.
You see, Pat Freestone is a man who knows his business. And just as I forced myself to watch every tape in the Big Screen Video rental catalog, including such nauseating pap as Fudge Fist IV and The Wedding Planner, I sat down and lit up. The first puff made me cough. The next made me slightly dizzy. But by the last lung-full, I was convinced that cigarette smoking is by far the most powerful and complete godlike satisfaction a human being can experience. Period.
So, I sent 8,016 or so letters and e-mails to the Newport Cigarette Company, suggesting that they immediately remove their obviously negative product warnings from their packaging, to create consumer confidence and allow more people like myself to feel alive with menthol pleasure. Apparently, these wet blankets felt my comments were excessive and uncalled for. Fine. See how far you get by practically telling people NOT to smoke Newport Brand Cigarettes. Idiots!
But at least it's got me back online with all of you!
Smoke them if you've got them,
Novmeber 20, 2002
You know who you never see anymore? Joe Camel.
It's strange. I thought the kids loved Joe Camel!
November 21, 2002
As a recent convert to Newport Menthols, I can tell you that nothing moves the work day along like hurriedly smoking half a cigarette outside by the loading dock every twenty minutes from 8 am until it's time to go home.
I might be new to smoking, but I've really gotten the hang of it. I'm up to
almost nine packs a day, twelve on weekends. If Pat Freestone's doing it,
Pat Freestone's doing it all the way or not at all. You can take that to
I wear nicotine-excreting stickers on my thighs and sternum while I sleep
now, and I find I can usually get three or four cigarettes in during my
morning shower, if I keep the shower-head pointed away from my body at all
The "No Smoking" placard in my building's elevator was a problem at first.
But now I find that if I push the hatch up, I can climb on top of the car
and smoke the whole way down. That way, I'm not technically IN the
elevator. No harm done!
Finally, there's the problem of the city bus. You would think that a big
city like Yonkers could afford to create a special smokers-only charter
line, but alas, no. So I leave for work just a few hours early each
morning, which gives me time to jog and smoke the whole way. That way, I'm
all smoked up by the time I get to work, and with the bus fare I'm saving, I
can buy an extra pack almost every two weeks!
Put that in your pipe and smoke it!
I seem to recall the phrase "No Taxation Without Representation" being
somewhat important in this country.
I just found that that most of every dollar we smokers spend on cigarettes
goes not to tobacco crop research, not to charcoal-filter technology, and
not to more rugged Marlboro Gear, but instead to a government-imposed tax
Think about it: seven dollars might not seem like a lot for a pack
of 20 Class A cigarettes, but when you consider that more than half of that
money goes to the fat cats in Washington, well, then I guess we smokers are
the ones getting burned!
How dare you!
NINE TAXES THAT I'D LIKE TO SEE
9. Wall Street Dickhead Tax
8. Fat People's Extra-Large Poop Surcharge
7. Post-Menopausal Heavy Perfume Toll
6. Bringing Infant to Movie Theater Tariff
5. Crashing Giant Oil Tanker Charge
4. Silent But Deadly Fart Penalty
3. Unnecessary New Flavor of Ice Tea Fee
2. Insulting to Intelligence Advertisement Tax
1. Twice I Said Please No Fucking Mayonnaise Rebate
Long Live Smokers!
November 25, 2002
I've thought about this for a long time, and I know it won't be easy, but I've finally had enough.
I've decided to quit smoking.
Starting right now, I will rid myself of this habit once and for all. This little monkey is coming off my back, for good this time. I refuse to let a little stick of tobacco control my life, or take it away altogether. I owe it to my family, my friends, and the people who care about me. It will take some getting used to, but it has to be done. I'm stronger than this addiction.
Okay, I can do this.
Okay, so I can see by the lit cigarette in my hand that I can't do this. But someday, I'll quit this filthy habit. And you kids out there, don't start, ever. Don't make the same mistake I did. Because once you start, you're hooked for good.
November 26, 2002
On the jog to work this morning, I stopped at the 24-hour market to buy a carton of cigarettes, and noticed an old man sitting on the bench out front, breathing with the aid of an oxygen tank and mask. I inquired as to the reason behind such an apparatus. When he removed the oxygen mask from his face to respond, I was shocked to see that he had no lips. He told me that 55 years of smoking had almost completely destroyed his lungs and most of the mucous membranes in his mouth and throat, and that if I had any sense in my head I should "quit moking at toon as pahible and nebba look back."
So we sat and had a few cigarettes together and talked about his $300 million lawsuit with the Phillip Morris Company.
What a great old guy!
See you tomorrow,
November 27, 2002
I have fallen on hard times.
Although I consider frugality and thrift to be perhaps my most enduring virtues, my recently acquired smoking addiction is about to break the bank.
It seems that I have been living under the faulty assumption that my bank account, built upon four solid years of full-time wages from my managerial position at Big Screen Video, was carrying a daily balance of somewhere between $48,000 and $55,000. Unfortunately, during these past four years, I absent-mindedly forgot to deduct any debits. This clerical error, compounded by my $70 per day smoking habit, has left me with an adjusted life savings of roughly six dollars.
So tonight, in order to feed my ravenous appetite for mentholated cigarettes, I shall work the mean streets of Yonkers as a male prostitute.
It has come to this.
December 2, 2002
"Don’t smoke," they said, but I never listened.
After several long, wretched nights of prostituting myself to perverts and sociopaths, I find myself once again at the mercy of my terrible, bone-crushing addiction to Newport Menthols. For years I have scoffed at the fallen souls who wander the streets at night, selling their bodies to strangers, but now, alas, I have become one of them. Well, almost.
Though I did not successfully "turn" any "tricks" after "hustling" out in the bitter cold on Washington Avenue all weekend, I was able to procure a small stipend of menthol cigarettes last night from a kind-hearted whore by the name of L’Nora. I smoked them all at once like a dope-sick junkie, and then rubbed the half-melted filter-nubs on my gums until the sun came up. At one point, a car stopped in front of me, but it was just a young man looking for directions to the heroin salesman.
With the remaining $6 in my savings account, I purchased four packages of discount brand cigarettes. I believe they were called "Samsungs." I must admit, although not as Alive with Pleasure as the Newports, they were terribly, terribly satisfying and full of rich, comforting tobacco flavor.
As my father once said, "any port in a storm."
December 3, 2002
Note to self:
Never, ever question the authority of the gold-toothed man in the green alligator shoes and fur coat.
December 4, 2002
I might be lying in the gutter, but I’m looking up at the stars. Granted, they are the kind of stars one sees after sustaining serious head trauma, but stars nonetheless.
Unlike like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman, or Darva Conger in Who Wants To Marry A Millionaire, my decision to become a whore has thus far not improved my situation. Luckily, I have a few tricks left up my sleeve to get the tar and nicotine caked back onto the linings of my trachea, lungs and pulmonary arteries where they belong. With some determination, a little luck, and about nine hours of collecting discarded cigarette butts, I have amassed enough tobacco for Pat Freestone’s first ever
Hand-Rolled Medley Combo Mega-Smoke
This seven-pound beauty contains over 1,200 of only the finest, freshest, hand-picked cigarette butts available from the streets and public ashtrays of Yonkers, New York. After a long day of collecting, I carefully removed the smokable shreds from each butt and hand-rolled the entire tobacco pile into a giant cigarette using a 3x4 foot Boar’s Head sticker I tore from the side of a delivery truck.
Now, I just need to procure a dry box of fireplace matches.
See you tomorrow,
December 5, 2002
A smoking success!
Although the plastic adhesive of the Boar’s Head sticker gave off a somewhat odd odor, and didn’t burn as evenly as would the treated paper of a commercially-produced brand, my seven-pound homemade cigarette was the envy of the entire street population of Washington Avenue.
I smoked it for over four hours, and then extinguished it on the side of a utility pole. If my calculations are correct, I should indeed have enough left to get through the night.
Now I can give my full attention to the whoring.
December 6, 2002
Last night, as I worked the streets as a prostitute, I was visited by a flying, eight-armed, luminescent angel who told me that I was going to free myself of my all-consuming addiction to the demon known as cigarettes.
Either that, or I was hallucinating from not sleeping for over eighty hours and smoking PCP-dipped Capri Lights with L’Nora all day.
In any case, the revelation was this: Cigarettes are not worth 35 cents apiece.
Therefore, I quit.
So, to the thousands upon thousands of vocal non-smokers, pro sin-tax lobbyists, quality of life zealots, health news correspondents, Big Tobacco watchdogs, anti-smoking legislators, and the many others who have fought so hard to tax Americans out of their freedom to smoke while the rest of our society, economy and culture goes straight-the-fuck-to-absolute-hell I say THANKS FOR NOTHING, YOU SPOON-FED, SUV-LEASING, WHOPPER-EATING, HALF-CAFF-DRINKING, CATALOG-SHOPPING, TREADMILL-PUSHING, MOTOWN-DOWNLOADING, CRYBABY PAIN-IN-THE-ASS PANTY-WASTE HYPOCRITES!!!
And that goes for you, too, Doctor Phil!
I apologize. I’m a bit irritable because I just quit smoking.