I’ve decided I want to become a cigarette spokesperson.
Wearing my bayou hat, pair of red tinted shades and a button up black shirt with my snake wrapped around my neck. Sleeves rolled up and tattoos showing.
Smoking on a tasty cigarette. On a bill board over the highway.
Or perhaps dressed as a pirate, keel-hauling some poor bastard while puffin away on a cigar.
“Proving once and for all smoking makes you a bad ass.” the caption would say.
Or a whiskey spokesman. Put on my snooty art snob wannabe gear: black pants and shoes, grey turtleneck, black leather coat, glasses. Sitting at a high class bar, staring off into space with a tumbler of bourbon on ice. Smoking, of course.
Wouldn’t life be grand?