He smoked him like a bad cigar!

Deep into his sixties (he never made it to his seventies), he would tap his fag hard against his brass Zippo like a soldier, toss it in his mouth, strike the flame on his thigh, spark it and exhale through his nose, then keep it clamped in his teeth as he typed, in line with the heavily marketed notion of the smoker as writer.

He reached his hand toward me. “You don’t mind my asking, do you?” “Of course not,” I say calmly as I reverse the lit end of the cigarette so that the flame is cupped in the palm. I reach for his handshake. He screams like a woman in distress with her skirt held high. I puff my meanness as he licks at the burn and whimpers, “You sonofagun. You’ve burned the dickens out of my hand.” “I know.” “But why? I didn’t do anything. I don’t even know you.” “I guess it’s my Samoan blood.” Sal rushes to my defense. He points his finger at the fag. “Out!” “But I didn’t do anything.” “Out, out!” he shouts, his hands stiffly on the bar. The old fag picks himself up and begins to drag himself out.

Suddenly I was tired of Lotterman; he was a phony and he didn't even know it. He was forever yapping about freedom of the press and keeping the paper going, but if he'd had a million dollars and all the freedom in the world he'd still put out a worthless newspaper because he wasn't smart enough to put out a good one. He was just another noisy little punk in the great legion of punks who marched between the banners of bigger and better men. Freedom, Truth, Honour — you could rattle off a hundred such words and behind every one of them would gather a thousand punks, pompous little farts, waving the banner with one hand and reaching under the table with the other.
I stood up. "Ed," I said using his name for the first time, "I believe I'll quit."

Put that bloody cigarette out!

I'll never smoke tobacco,
It is a filthy weed—
I'll never put it in my mouth,'
Said little Bobby Reed.'For there is idle Jerry Jones,
As lazy as a pig,
Who smoked a clay pipe all day long,
And thought it made him big.

His smile was the nightmare in my back pocket.(Speaking about Ronald Reagan)

Willy consulted a book called I-ching. Florrie suggested calamine lotion to stop it.... Henry suggested it sounded like something a gentleman would do behind a handkerchief

A man can smile and smile and be a villain.

He looked as though his life had not only passed him by but paused along the way to spit in his face.