The Bum. I’m typically not a hater (that’s a total lie) but the one type of person I cannot stand is the cigarette bum. I think I subconsciously quit smoking by thinking, “I’m not going to be a part of this circular moochfest any longer. I wanna be one less!” The Bum never has their own goddamn cigarettes. Just lend them a cig; they’ll hit you back – on the 12th of never. The bum always has outrageous excuses as to why they don’t have cigarettes – never mind that the rest of the cigarette smoking population is well aware of what the difficulty level of purchasing cigarettes is. SO EASY, A CAVEMAN COULD DO IT. Don’t have cash? There’s this thing called an A-T-M now. You just finished your pack? No, because you’d have to actually buy a pack in order to finish it. Try again. Cigarettes are expensive? Oh, I wasn’t aware. Now I definitely want to give you six of them. GTFO.
The Social Smoker. The Social Smoker somehow manages to only smoke when they’re drinking. You meet them at a bar and go on several cig breaks together. Before you know it, you’ve built a friendship over exhausted smoke and you’re making plans to hang out with them in daylight. They’re not like your judge-y Madonna friends, you know? Until there’s no alcohol in sight and you’ve ripped through a quarter of a pack while they just sit there being well adjusted and smoke-free. Can you sell me a slice of your self-control, please?
The Chainsmoker. The Chainsmoker is equal parts gross and impressive. They’re that person who lights their next cigarette with the cherry of their last one. They’re the person you don’t even bother asking, “Didn’t you just have one?” The answer is always the same. “So?” Don’t bother trying to understand a chainsmoker’s propensity for tobacco. There is no rhyme or reason as to why one might need to smoke an entire pack of cigarettes in three hours other than that they are addicted, they can afford to, or they are on cocaine.
The American Ass Smoker. The American Ass Smoker smokes either Marlboro Reds, American Spirits (obviously), or rolls their own. Their entire ‘personal brand’ is built on smoking cigarettes. If they quit both smoking and country music, they’d become another person entirely.
The Cautionary Tale. The Cautionary Tale is the person who appears in MTA ads or television commercials and tells you not to smoke. They are a limp body attached to a hacking cough, one that lasts longer than what’s comfortable for anyone in earshot; they are a ravaged vessel hooked up to machines designed to do what one hopes their body will do on its own. Stuff like breathing. The only good thing about The Cautionary Tale is that they sometimes motivate people to quit smoking before it’s too late, or to never start at all.
The Average Joe. The Average Joe smokes, on average, 7.5 cigarettes a day, usually Marlboro Lights or any brand with particularly bland packaging, really. They can go extended periods of time without smoking and without complaining about it, much to the dismay of pretty much every other smoker. The Average Joe says, “I can quit at any time.” And means it. Their smoking traditions are so boring that they run the risk of betraying the vaguely attractive, rebellious spirit that cigarette manufacturers have been trying to Make Happen for the past century.
The Rehabilitated. The Rehabilitated have smoked their brains out and lived to tell about it. They no longer smoke, but they are a lifelong Cigaholic. Smoking even one cigarette might cause them to fall off the wagon. They will attempt to never smoke again, but a part of them still feels that cigarettes are pretty rad. The Rehabilitated usually sit around obsessively analyzing other smokers in order to feel ‘a part of things’ in lieu of their beloved habit.