Tommy Zarzecki (aka Tommy Zman)
Hello, my name is Tommy Zman and I am a Cigar Pornographer.
What I’m trying to say is that I am deeply addicted to cigars, constantly leering at photos of them and sharing of photos of them – which basically makes me a real sicko, for lack of a better term.

A freshly rolled, un-banded cigar just might be the most beautiful sight in the world to those of us who suffer from this affliction, and I know there are many of you out there who share my tobacco disorder. One look at a shining oily stick can induce uncontrollable cravings, and an unwrapped naked bundle is enough to send the lot of us into therapy. Upon cracking open a new box and taking in that first whiff of aged leaf and cedar goodness, well, like the song goes, “Somebody get me a doctor” because I am in the midst of pure unadulterated wanton lust.

A lot of you fellow degenerates like to post photos of the sticks you’re enjoying on web portals like FaceBook and online forums, and that is admittedly a real weakness for me. It’s such a weakness that I too must break out the smart phone and take snapshots of my heavily tanned maduros in uncompromising positions, all while posting such comments like, “Is that the tightest white ash you’ve ever seen?” or, “Is that a Honduran in your humidor or are you just happy to see me?”

Hey, I told you I was a sicko. But the real point here is that I love it all with zero remorse and have absolutely no intentions of stopping this self-induced madness.

I have often wondered why cigar smoking brings about such unbridled passion amongst those of us who lust the leaf. While so many of us are addicted to food, booze, gambling, and top-heavy hotties who curve in all the best places, cigars create an unexplainable camaraderie, bonding people together who would normally never associate in the same circles. And while I can’t even attempt to explain this odd phenomena – especially to those who don’t smoke – all I know is that it makes me feel good, and that’s good enough reason for me to continue with my smoky ways.

 



Another piece to this perverse sickness that so many of us share, is our bizarre behavior and the rituals we go through when the catalogs arrive in the mail. It seems that all the online purveyors of hand rolled tobacco goodness purposely print and mail their catalogs at the same exact time, causing sensory overload for whack jobs like me. I find myself lurking at the front door and peering through the window like a stalker, waiting for the local carrier to pull up to the mailbox and deliver my fix. As he drives away I run to the street, fling open the small metal door and pant like a pitbull as I rummage through the glossy, multi-page rags. I then rush back into the house and it’s straight into the bathroom, spending hours pouring over the photos and colorful descriptions written about criollo and corojo leaf being kissed by the morning Honduran sun. Oh my God, is it getting hot in here, or what?

Well, the wife and kids get pretty pissed when I occupy the commode for hours on end, so I’ll take my obligatory dinner break, then it’s off to the back patio with a bottle of hootch, a handful of full-bodied, post meal sticks, and those precious tobacco-laden rags. After hours of drooling and grunting, all lathered up like a wolverine in heat, the worst thing I can possibly do is have my credit card anywhere near me. God knows I am a weak man and have been known to skip a few bills for the month, all so the UPS dude can deliver several heavy boxes that I’ll need to sign for in a couple of days. Come on, heat and electric is so overrated.

And let’s talk about what Brown can do for me. Several days after ordering a hefty bounty of deliciously aged leaf in a myriad of sizes, shapes, and colors, I can hardly do any work as I keeping turning my head back, staring into the driveway, impatiently waiting for the delivery dude to drop the bomb. Then it happens, the doorbell rings and I race so fast that my feet don’t even touch the steps. I grab the handle and fling open the door only to find the neighbor’s eight-year old freckle-face rug rat pinching me once again for Girl Scout cookies.

“Hi Mr. Zman, would you like to buy some Samoas and Do Si Dos this year?”

“GOOD GOD, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE YA FRIGGIN’ YARD APE!," I yell at the top of my lungs, as pure delirium overtakes any sense of reason I once had. “Unless you’re peddling Alec Bradley, Joya de Nic, Drew Estate, or Tatuaje, you’re NO GOOD TO ME!”

And of course, this highly sensitive kid runs off, balling like a friggin’ baby as here I am left high and dry still waiting for my Nicaraguan drop. These kids today really need to grow a pair. Okay, so in about 15 minutes my wife is gonna have to deal with a phone call from the little scout’s irate mom, but I’ve got more important things to worry about, meaning a UPS guy who’s late as all hell with my tobacco porn stash.

“What the hell are you doing on the front porch for four hours,” my wife demands to know. “It’s Sunday, and UPS doesn’t deliver today!”

“AHHHHHHHHHH ….. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO,” as I collapse into the fetal position wondering how on earth I’ll make it ‘til Monday afternoon.

Hey, come on, now… I told you I was a sicko, a real live perv when it comes to premium hand rolled cigars. But I have to say that I can’t thank you enough for listening – letting me rant on while sharing my inner demons as this was most definitely a cathartic event for me. Wow, I feel cleansed.

On a final note, if you find yourself with the same affliction, an uncontrollable lustful desire for aged Latino leaf, well, maybe we can start a support group or something. Yeah, you know, that might really be a great idea… gathering together with others who are just like us: smoke-craved sickos. We can share our stories and our idiosyncrasies when it comes to cigars. Wow, I think that just might be the answer to my… oops… wait a minute… doorbell’s ringing… gotta gooooooooooo!

Tommy Zman. is truly an obsessive enjoyer of life. Growing up in the bowels of northern New Jersey, parented by an eccentric Polish father and a neurotic Italian mother, what else could this man possibly be other than a humorist? Zman’s a "real" guy – someone who considers himself a throwback to a time when men were kings of the castle, and smoking a cigar in public didn’t label you an outcast and a pariah. He’s totally old-school, a down to earth guy with traditional values. Visit Zman’s Blog: Rants From a Social Cromag, and see his work @ www.tommyzman.com Wanna reach the Zman? —> zmanmediagroup@optimum.net Find Tommy Zman on Facebook, and follow him on Twitter.

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