Boss Hogg and The Goat Sucker
Asia's "Only Time Will Tell" was the selection from my playlist that was pumping through the speakers as I pulled into the parking space. I stepped out into the blistering Alabama heat. "Honk" my alarm sounded as I walked towards the entrance. There were two couples sitting at a black wrought iron patio table to the left of the door. There is a distinct redness to an IPA that has extra hops with rye malt mixed in. The liquid in their beer glasses had that color. These were my people. The dark wrapper on the cigar held by the largest of the men told me that he was the boss. His stubby fingers were wrapped around what appeared to be an Esteban Carreras Chupacabra Robusto Grande. "Nicaraguan?" I asked. He gave me an odd stare. A light breeze kicked up and his comb-over drifted across his bald spot. I pointed to his cigar. "Ha ha, yes! Chupcabra". I looked back for a white Cadillac Convertible with steer horns mounted to the hood. Boss Hogg is in Birmingham smoking a Chupacabra.
Goat sucker. The goat sucker tale has entertained me for years. In my opinion the goat sucker, better known as the Chupacabra, is only second to the Wookalar. Bigfoot has nothing on these creatures. I tortured my kids with the tales of the Wookalar just like my grandmother did to my brother and me.
I recognized the distinct label on Boss' cigar. I knew the brand. I looked for Rosco P. Coltrane. Nowhere. I pulled the glass door open and stepped inside. I heard laughter coming from behind me as the door was slowly closing. One of the ladies at the table commented "He thought you were Nicaraguan!" The other gentleman added "Noriega!"
I stepped back out and said "Ortega". Boss Hogg chuckled.
Black subway tile covers one wall of "The Humidor Room". This place is Birmingham's best kept secret. It's a scotch and cigar bar with a large walk-in humidor. A few couches, a bar, TV's, and the sweet smell of cedar and cigar smoke filling the air make this seem like heaven. Heaven.
The Shelby County Landfill is a dump. Literally. Birds love the dump. I don't know why, but they literally flock to the place. Boss Hogg would never go to the dump. I'd be willing to bet that Noriega avoided the Shelby County Landfill as well. The landfill is nothing like heaven. Unless your a bird. I guess.
I was at the dump earlier in the day throwing the last remenants of our life in our house on River Birch Trail onto the red clay. What a sad ending for that once valuable 25 inch TV with the built-in VHS player. It had "Mary Poppins" wedged in the tape slot. Broken boards, busted glass, assorted plastics, cardboard, and Mary Poppins were tossed onto the pile of forgotten relics of others. The front load TV/VCR combo, it probably belongs in a time capsul. It's mission completed. It's purpose fulfilled. I am sure that it has been smashed to bits by now by the tractors that rule the dump. They rule the landfill like the Wookalars once ruled my grandmother's backyard.
The word "Chupacabra" is Spanish for "goat sucker". The Chupacabra is an evil beast that has been spotted in Mexico, Puerto Rico, and Nicaragua. It feasts on small to medium sized animals. It drains the blood out of its victims like the way the dump drains the joy out of me. The smell, the clay, the damn $10 that you pay for entrance. The birds love it there. Yet, they get in free.
That is why I stopped at "The Humidor Room". I deserved a treat.
I walked past the bar, the black subway tiled wall, the TVs, and fish tank. I slid the door to the walk-in humidor open. I grabbed two of Nicaraguas finest. Chupacabras. I paid the attendant and walked out the door. My IPA people were still laughing. One of them greeted me with "You're right, Ortega. I Googled it." I displayed my purchase. "Chupcabra" said Boss Hogg. The other gentleman added "Do you know what a Chupacabra is?" I smiled. "Goat Sucker."
I hit the forward arrow on the display screen on my dash. "Loser" by Beck. Perfect. I realized that I had dump stench on me. Sweat. Dirt. Clay. I must have looked like one of those landfill birds as I hovered over the selection in the humidor. Loser.
Not today, Beck. I am not a loser. Not today. Thanks to "Google Translate", I have realized that I am The Chupacigarro. Yes, I am the Cigar Sucker. I will drain one of these tonight on the pee pad covered porch. I'll think of the birds, Boss Hogg, the TV/VCR combo unit, Mary Poppins, my grandmother, the Wookalar, and the Chupacabras. Yes, the Chupcabras that I bought at Birmingham's best kept secret, a small scotch and cigar bar Over Yonder.
Goat sucker. The goat sucker tale has entertained me for years. In my opinion the goat sucker, better known as the Chupacabra, is only second to the Wookalar. Bigfoot has nothing on these creatures. I tortured my kids with the tales of the Wookalar just like my grandmother did to my brother and me.
I recognized the distinct label on Boss' cigar. I knew the brand. I looked for Rosco P. Coltrane. Nowhere. I pulled the glass door open and stepped inside. I heard laughter coming from behind me as the door was slowly closing. One of the ladies at the table commented "He thought you were Nicaraguan!" The other gentleman added "Noriega!"
I stepped back out and said "Ortega". Boss Hogg chuckled.
Black subway tile covers one wall of "The Humidor Room". This place is Birmingham's best kept secret. It's a scotch and cigar bar with a large walk-in humidor. A few couches, a bar, TV's, and the sweet smell of cedar and cigar smoke filling the air make this seem like heaven. Heaven.
The Shelby County Landfill is a dump. Literally. Birds love the dump. I don't know why, but they literally flock to the place. Boss Hogg would never go to the dump. I'd be willing to bet that Noriega avoided the Shelby County Landfill as well. The landfill is nothing like heaven. Unless your a bird. I guess.
I was at the dump earlier in the day throwing the last remenants of our life in our house on River Birch Trail onto the red clay. What a sad ending for that once valuable 25 inch TV with the built-in VHS player. It had "Mary Poppins" wedged in the tape slot. Broken boards, busted glass, assorted plastics, cardboard, and Mary Poppins were tossed onto the pile of forgotten relics of others. The front load TV/VCR combo, it probably belongs in a time capsul. It's mission completed. It's purpose fulfilled. I am sure that it has been smashed to bits by now by the tractors that rule the dump. They rule the landfill like the Wookalars once ruled my grandmother's backyard.
The word "Chupacabra" is Spanish for "goat sucker". The Chupacabra is an evil beast that has been spotted in Mexico, Puerto Rico, and Nicaragua. It feasts on small to medium sized animals. It drains the blood out of its victims like the way the dump drains the joy out of me. The smell, the clay, the damn $10 that you pay for entrance. The birds love it there. Yet, they get in free.
That is why I stopped at "The Humidor Room". I deserved a treat.
I hit the forward arrow on the display screen on my dash. "Loser" by Beck. Perfect. I realized that I had dump stench on me. Sweat. Dirt. Clay. I must have looked like one of those landfill birds as I hovered over the selection in the humidor. Loser.
Not today, Beck. I am not a loser. Not today. Thanks to "Google Translate", I have realized that I am The Chupacigarro. Yes, I am the Cigar Sucker. I will drain one of these tonight on the pee pad covered porch. I'll think of the birds, Boss Hogg, the TV/VCR combo unit, Mary Poppins, my grandmother, the Wookalar, and the Chupacabras. Yes, the Chupcabras that I bought at Birmingham's best kept secret, a small scotch and cigar bar Over Yonder.
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