Making own Cigars

Years ago, riding my murdersickle thru Amish country late summer, I got intoxicated by the aroma of baccy in their drying barns. Wanted to enjoy some. Asked an Amish feller where it went. Lancaster Leaf, says he. Called Lancaster Leaf & asked where who made the gars. Dominican Republic, etc., says they. Well, none of my gars from Hispaniola smelt the least like this. Asked again. Only place left making gars from local air-cured Amish baccy, says they, is FX Smith's Sons in McSherrystown. Called them up. No web site, no catalog, no mailer, no samplers, nuttin. Rode my murdersickle 2 hours thru gorgeous countryside to McSherrystown & scored some gars. Loved 'em. How can I get some more, I ask? No stores near you, says they.  How do you distribute them, I ask? Guys drive round in station wagons & stock drug stores, says they. Let me drag your sorry ass into the 21st, says I. That's how I got to hobby around with making them a web store. That musta been five years ago. The Sotweed Factor, LLC is the store ... the old factory ships the goods. I make just enough to pay the taxes and shipping.

So. Where in all this detail the ATF thought they should clamp down hard on such a dastardly doer of dastardly deeds I dunno. Insert imagination for this part.

All's I know, this last summer I get a call from a guy named Bill from a Philly number, says he lives in Delaware, wants to buy gars. I say go to the web site. Says he'd rather drive over. I say there is no store here. It's on the web. Says, yeah, but he's not sure which gar from the line he wants. I say buy a sampler. He suggests he drop by and buy a sampler. I say you are welcome to come over and we can set in the enclosed cedar lined cigar smoking porch and I will be glad to let him smoke a few and see if he likes. He shows. Old duffer in a hat with the emblem of a Navy tin can. Says he drove from his house in Dull-Aware. PA plates. We smoke and talk politics and life and his retirement. He likes a couple gars. Wants to buy from me. I say no, we can put in an order on the web, all things ship from the old factory in McS. He presses; I decline. He presses; I decline. He presses; I decline. I say let's put in an order right now from this laptop. He says, oh, too bad, I forgot to bring my wallet. Somewhere in all this talk, I get the notion maybe this works like when the **** asks the john whether he's a cop, if he's a cop he has to admit it. So I ask him, what did he do before he retired? Says he retired from the Navy. I say, no, no one can live on a navy pension; what do you do now? ATF, says he. Oh, what do you do for ATF? Undercover, says he. There you are.

Well, he must bust some real dummies. Cause even after this admission, again: He presses; I decline. He presses; I decline. He presses; I decline. Last thing, on his way out, I hand him a baggie with freebie gars, he says he wants to give me money for it, I decline, he says some guys, what they do, they give him a bag of gars, he leaves some money on the table. I say, well, I don't say don't let the door hit you on the way out, but I do say something like "I'd rather just stay legal, to tell the truth."

He told me that soon as he got home he was going to put in an order. For seven bonus points, you can answer me this: Did I ever hear from him again?

Fascism. It's insane how much effort and salary is wasted on obsessive gummint regulation of EVERYTHING.

No notion how his gars smoke; but, tasty as they look, I would buy one from Marc. What I would not do is sell one if I were Marc.