Benson and Hedges Cigarettes: Like a BJ in Heaven

"Hey Matt, if you're not too busy today, mind picking me up a carton of Benson and Hedges full-flavored, regular, gold-form, hard-pack, 100's while you're out? It's gonna be a long weekend."

No Joyce, not at all...not at all.

Joyce enjoys Benson and Hedges cigarettes, and that's all right with me, my friends. Life is a short shimmy in the sunlight, and next-door-neighbors are a privilege, not a right. Joyce, the heavy-set, gravelly voiced, nocturnal widow who constantly describes herself as a "ferocious" reader, and who has a habit of appearing spontaneously in my doorway to offer a half-eaten custard pie, is my privilege; I'll shimmy with her anytime.

Joyce shimmies to the tune of two packs of Benson and Hedges a day. Like a Californian forest fire swan diving into a public pool filled with ethanol while being pissed on by a grizzly bear drunk on gasoline, Joyce smokes.

A Benson and Hedges cigarette is her man-mistress and the elegant touch of the filter caressing her pursed lips is her taboo bareback romp in the naval yards while the husband departs on a business flight from Dallas. Finally, the finishing puff of said cigarette before searing the tip of the filter is nothing less than the messy money-shot of premium flavor.

If only Benson and Hedges would offer the consumer their own version of Marlboro Miles, Joyce could flaunt a Benson and Hedges leather jacket, become friends with her acquaintances with a Benson and Hedge's pool table, or lounge on the spiffy deck of her Benson and Hedges ranch house.

"There's no wrong way to eat a Reese's," Joyce assures me, "just as there is no wrong way to smoke a Benson and Hedges. Why, I have explored many erotic ways of consuming a refreshing Benson and Hedges. I am a walking Benson and Hedges Kama Sutra. Check it, I call this particular smoking style the Congressman; one has to be quite nimble. In fact, I once won favor with JFK by propositioning the president with a smoking position I perfer to call Lady of the Lips" she declared nostalgically as she strained earnestly but ineffectively to bend in a such a way. " However I have grow older and utimately less flexible. Regardless, he was, to say the least...intrigued."

Joyce does enjoy her Benson and Hedges. Although the once white walls of her modest one-bedroom Greenfield apartment now radiate a healthy orange glow (ever lived in the stomach of a gigantic peach?), I pounce at every invite. Why? Joyce bakes these little sauage things wrapped in dough. They're good.