I notice, on dear Fidel's eighty-eighth birthday, that one of his finest has been occupying the inside breast pocket of my dinner jacket since, oh, it must have been before the smoking ban.
Either his ninetieth or his death, whichever happens sooner.
Between now and then, I must locate my cigar cutter. What is the world coming to, when a gentleman cannot find his cigar cutter?
¡Viva la Revolución!
I'm in the newspaper today. A left wing national newspaper as well.
ReplyDeleteWell, we Kippers get everywhere.
Make sure it is not an exploding one.
ReplyDeleteThere is only one way of finding out.
Delete