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Tales from the Cigar Lounge

Imagine, if you will, Twitter Group Chats as a collection of rooms.

Some rooms exist to SIMP for Amy Coney Barrett, some exist for Fantasy Sports, others exist to hold contentious political debates.

One such room has been dubbed “The Cigar Lounge,” a place where like-minded men gather and discuss the important issues of our day. On the door hangs a simple sign: “Gentlemen Only, Ladies Forbidden.”

You enter and an attendant takes your coat.

There is no official dress code; we only ask that you respect each other and always leave as friends. There is a small hallway; on your left, there is a small counter with a logbook. You check in under whichever moniker suits you best; this is, above all, a safe haven.

Walking to the end of the hallway, the room opens up. Much like the hallway that came before it, hardwood flooring with accented carpeting, leather chairs and bookshelves lining the walls.

The smell of cigar smoke fills the air; the filtering system is robust, but cannot compensate for all of the smoke your compatriots are producing.

You walk to the drink cart and pour yourself a few fingers of your preferred beverage and look across the room.

A raucous discussion is raging about the current polling released by Real Clear Politics or Nate Plastic; you aren’t exactly sure as you make your way over to the conversation.

Consensus is mixed, aside from everyone agreeing that it’s a fool’s game to prognosticate on what is likely unreliable data. You step away from the conversation and head to the record player and the Large LP collection.

You decide on some Miles Davis and set the record going. You then notice another group crowded around one of our older and wiser members and head over.

Our sage of the hour is giving the younger amongst us some relationship advice, and this continues for some time.

Later in the evening, after a few more drinks and at least two more cigars, one of the other members mentions that he has a nominee for our wall of attractive journos.

The conversation is prefaced, as always, by the fact that all journos need to be sent to GITMO, but boys will be boys, and we launch into the merits of hanging the journo’s photo on our wall.

Many hours after entering the room, you decide it’s time to head home. You bid your compatriots farewell and they wish you a good day.

The attendant hands you your coat and you walk out.

This has been a tale from The Cigar Lounge


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