This website was initially titled 'Fine Cubans', which I quickly
terminated to not only make way for a more interesting title, but also
to allow reviews of produce from the other cigar-producing countries. I
innocently asked my employer, being a fan of the finer things, about
decent non-Cuban cigars, to which he bared his teeth and, turning
sharply on his heels, gave a terse "there are none". Thinking he'd
gone to the bathroom, and hurt at his dismissal, I sat down and
angrily took to his couch cushions with my car keys, upsetting the
piping, and leaving powdery white teethmarks on the leather. He returned
quite suddenly, having in fact been retrieving a humidor and, ignorant
of my misguided retaliation, placed it between us on the couch. He
rummaged through scores of cigars, and threw some Nicaraguan and
Dominican examples my way, happy to be relieved of them. It's with this shameful introduction that I'll be putting an Azan Burgundy-label robusto to the flame. It's a well-travelled Nicaraguan, and my hopes are not high.
Many years ago I was in Munich, supposedly named for pre-Sapien Munchkin races that preceded the Barbarian tribes that founded modern-day Germany. Munich is a city known for its beer, with the famous Hofbräuhaus and Oktoberfest and Maß's of lager available in most places. I was with my friend Krist, with whom I'd joined a beer tour. I'll spare the great detail, but it's effectively a group of young people, mostly Australian, who are driven to show everybody else how much beer they've managed to pour down their constantly flapping gullets. I ultimately enjoyed the tour, but it instilled a camaraderie among the tourists that compelled them to want to keep the party going. Krist was just as eager to escape as I was, and we ducked into one of Munich's many discreet strip clubs, leaving the crowd timidly giggling in our musky wake.
The first inch is intensely bitter, and makes me shudder, but it quickly gives way to wonderful cedar chips, like with which meat is smoked on Weber barbecues. The burn is even, the tobacco is light, and the draw is perfect.
We sat at the club's bar and ordered drinks, and backbriefed one another on our individual experiences with the tour's trilby-wearing Australian hipsters. I had my hands in front of my face, trying to express my disgust, when Rihanna sidled up next to me. "Hello, baby", she cooed, oily Barbadian accent crackling on the fricatives. Before I knew it we were in a semi-private booth, and I was handing over fistfuls of Euros while she, perched on my sweaty lap, peeled her fishnets off her brown body. She cradled my soft penis through my jeans, paused, and said "baby...are you black?", and said she wanted to jerk me off. How much would this cost, I mused aloud. €500, she lazily exclaimed. I balked, but found myself withdrawing the cash from the bar at whatever gross markup they were charging. I returned to the booth where she was waiting, fully clothed once again. I handed her the cash, and excused myself to use the bathroom before we got started.
At the midpoint the light tobacco endures, and is accompanied by the light bitterness of coffee grounds. The burn is strong and even, without requiring a single re-light or touch-up, and there's not a hint of tar. It's not a complex cigar, but it's so far a fine smoke.
I hit the bathroom and let liters of German beer splash hotly out of my cock which, unfortunately, was all it was good for at the time. Alcohol has never enhanced my sexual prowess, and my penis cared not that I'd just handed a month's rent over to Rihanna. I wandered back to the booth where she, disinterestedly, fished my flaccid penis from my pants and started to yank it like a ripcord, her heavy rings catching the loose skin around my squishy shaft. She yanked and yanked, and I made "ooooh yeah" noises, but it wasn't working. Eventually I pivoted away, thanked her, and slunk back to my hotel.
In the final inch the Azan continues to impress, and brings out the taste and aroma of burning kindling with cardboard, such as when starting a woodfire. I enjoy the light tobacco until my fingers burn, and I'm forced to stub it in my stumpy little ashtray. This Nicaraguan savage has been stewing in my backpack for ten days, and is the best thing I've smoked to date.
Many years ago I was in Munich, supposedly named for pre-Sapien Munchkin races that preceded the Barbarian tribes that founded modern-day Germany. Munich is a city known for its beer, with the famous Hofbräuhaus and Oktoberfest and Maß's of lager available in most places. I was with my friend Krist, with whom I'd joined a beer tour. I'll spare the great detail, but it's effectively a group of young people, mostly Australian, who are driven to show everybody else how much beer they've managed to pour down their constantly flapping gullets. I ultimately enjoyed the tour, but it instilled a camaraderie among the tourists that compelled them to want to keep the party going. Krist was just as eager to escape as I was, and we ducked into one of Munich's many discreet strip clubs, leaving the crowd timidly giggling in our musky wake.
The first inch is intensely bitter, and makes me shudder, but it quickly gives way to wonderful cedar chips, like with which meat is smoked on Weber barbecues. The burn is even, the tobacco is light, and the draw is perfect.
We sat at the club's bar and ordered drinks, and backbriefed one another on our individual experiences with the tour's trilby-wearing Australian hipsters. I had my hands in front of my face, trying to express my disgust, when Rihanna sidled up next to me. "Hello, baby", she cooed, oily Barbadian accent crackling on the fricatives. Before I knew it we were in a semi-private booth, and I was handing over fistfuls of Euros while she, perched on my sweaty lap, peeled her fishnets off her brown body. She cradled my soft penis through my jeans, paused, and said "baby...are you black?", and said she wanted to jerk me off. How much would this cost, I mused aloud. €500, she lazily exclaimed. I balked, but found myself withdrawing the cash from the bar at whatever gross markup they were charging. I returned to the booth where she was waiting, fully clothed once again. I handed her the cash, and excused myself to use the bathroom before we got started.
At the midpoint the light tobacco endures, and is accompanied by the light bitterness of coffee grounds. The burn is strong and even, without requiring a single re-light or touch-up, and there's not a hint of tar. It's not a complex cigar, but it's so far a fine smoke.
I hit the bathroom and let liters of German beer splash hotly out of my cock which, unfortunately, was all it was good for at the time. Alcohol has never enhanced my sexual prowess, and my penis cared not that I'd just handed a month's rent over to Rihanna. I wandered back to the booth where she, disinterestedly, fished my flaccid penis from my pants and started to yank it like a ripcord, her heavy rings catching the loose skin around my squishy shaft. She yanked and yanked, and I made "ooooh yeah" noises, but it wasn't working. Eventually I pivoted away, thanked her, and slunk back to my hotel.
In the final inch the Azan continues to impress, and brings out the taste and aroma of burning kindling with cardboard, such as when starting a woodfire. I enjoy the light tobacco until my fingers burn, and I'm forced to stub it in my stumpy little ashtray. This Nicaraguan savage has been stewing in my backpack for ten days, and is the best thing I've smoked to date.