S2 E33 - The Porch Parliament Featuring the Drew estates Tabak Especial

Drinking a Rum & Pepsi Zero on the porch after burying my little Tribble next to my previously passed pets, Tripp Eulogizes his blessed beasts while enjoying a Drew Estate Tabak Especial.

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:10

Well, now settle in, friends. Tonight's broadcast of Liberty on Nicotine comes to you from the most reliable studio ever devised by humankind. A slightly creaky front porch, one wooden chair that has seen better decades, and a soft glow of a porch light that attracts every moth in Ori County. It's like hosting a libertarian convention on deregulation. In my hand, comfortably nestled between two fingers that have been practiced in this ritual before, is a Drew Estates Taback Especiale cigar. Coffee infused, smooth as a late-night jazz station, and frankly, one of the few luxuries left in the modern regulatory state that hasn't been fully studied, taxed, licensed, banned, and then studied again just in case someone enjoyed it too much. And in my left hand, a tall glass of rum and Pepsi Zero, because if you're gonna indulge in a vice, you might as well make it half of it diet. Today was a day, folks, a long one. Earlier this afternoon, I finished the task every pet owner eventually dreads, the quiet ceremony of saying goodbye. The tribble rests now in the side yard, right next to Watson, the cat, and Avid the dog, her predecessors in what I have come to call the home guard battalion, the loyal little security force tasked with protecting the premises from squirrels, delivery trucks, and occasionally the tyrannical vacuum cleaner. Now, I'll tell you something about pets. Nobody warns you that when you bring one home, you're not just adopting an animal, you're appointing a tiny unelected family member who somehow gains lifetime tenure in your heart. No vote, no referendum, no constitutional amendment, just poof, emotional annexation. I remember when the Tribble first arrived, small, fluffy, slightly suspicious of everything except food, which honestly makes her sound like about half the voters in America. Over the years, she developed a very clear political position. One, the food bowl should always be full. Two, the sunbeam on the living room lug belonged exclusively to her. And three, government should stay out of her nap schedule. A strict constitutionalist, that one. Now, Watson the cat may his whiskers forever twitch and great litter box in the sky, was a different philosopher entirely. Watson believed in deep catarchy, total independence, no rules, no taxes, no affection unless he personally initiated the treaty. You didn't pet Watson, you negotiated with him. And Ava the dog? Well, Ava was a classic, a classic little uh little pup, a pup libertarian, friendly with everybody. She was a Catahula extraordinaire, welcoming to strangers, firm believer that cooperation beats coercion unless the mailman shows up. Then it's a full defensive posture. As I finished filling in the soil today, I realized something. That little stretch of yard has quietly become a kind of personal Arlington, not for soldiers, of course, but for companions. Little souls who guarded the house and kept me company, and occasionally reminded me that the meaning of life might actually be simpler than philosophers like to pretend food, sunshine, a place to sleep, and someone who scratches behind your ears. Honestly, if Congress could manage those four things, approval ravings would just absolutely skyrocket. And I tamped down that last shovel of dirt, stepped back, and thought, well, Tribble, you've officially joined the home guard right beside Watson and Ava. And the afterlife works anything like my backyard. I imagine Watson immediately claimed the best sleeping spot. Ava is wagging her tail like she just discovered eternal tennis balls, and the Tribble is surveying the operation like a small furry general. Now, here's the strange thing about grief. It sneaks up on you sideways. You'll be perfectly fine for hours, and then suddenly you expect to hear the little paws clicking on the floor or a scratch at the door or a sound of food bowl being aggressively investigated. And when it doesn't happen, the house feels just a little bigger than it used to. Too much square footage, too quiet. Which brings me back to this porch, this cigar, and the remarkable therapy known as ritual. Lighting a cigar isn't just smoking, it's declaring independence from the clock. You cut it, you toast the foot, draw that first puff, and suddenly the universe slows down to about three miles an hour. No algorithms, no notifications, no bureaucrat asking to fill out a form 17B, subsection four, explaining why you wanted to enjoy your own evening. Just smoke drifting into the night air like philosophical thought bubble. This Tayback special, by the way, is a perfect porch companion tonight. Coffee sweetness, creamy smoke. The sort of cigar that doesn't shout for attention, it just nods politely and says, Take your time, friend. And that rum and Pepsi Zero, let me tell you something. Rum may have built half of the maritime economy of the 1700s, but Pepsi Zero exists solely to allow a man to pretend he is making responsible life choices. You know, pet pets have a way of teaching libertarian lessons without even trying. Take property rights. Every pet knows exactly which chair belongs to them. You may have paid for it, but you may have assembled it. But the moment they sit down, ownership transfers instantly under what I call the Furry Homestead Act. Possession is nine-tenths of the law and ten-tenths of the law is clause. Then there's voluntary association. Dogs especially understand this principle beautifully. They don't stay with you just because of a contract. They stay because they want to. Because the relationship works, because it's mutually beneficial. When you provide food, shelter, and the occasional dropped cheeseburger, they provide loyalty, companionship, and an early warning system for suspicious squirrels. It's the purest free market exchange imaginable. Cats, of course, take a slightly different approach. Cats operate under what economists might call radical individual sovereignty. They recognize your authority only when it aligns perfectly with their own interests. Which, if you think about it, is basically how the founding fathers hoped citizens would behave toward government. This porch breeze is just perfect tonight. Warm but not humid. A little salt air drifting up from the Atlantic. Somewhere down the street, someone's playing country music softly enough that it sounds like the universe is humming. And the smoke from the cigar curls up toward the porch porch light like a slow-moving ghost. Maybe Watson's checking in. Maybe Ava's making sure the perimeter's secure. Maybe the Tribbles filing her first celestial complaint about the food bowl schedule. Tomorrow I head north. Everything is getting packed. Suitcase just about ready. The car will be fueled. A long road stretching toward Wisconsin. A funeral for my aunt or niece. Life has a funny way of stacking emotional events on top of each other like poorly organized luggage. But there's something comforting about journeys. Driving long distances gives your mind room to sort things out. Somewhere around mile 400, you actually reach philosophical breakthrough or at least a decent gas station hot dog. I imagine the Tribble would approve of the raid road trip. She always liked watching the world from below the window. She never quite understood why the scenery kept moving instead of the house. Frankly, if you think about it, that's pretty reasonable objection. Now, here's something I've learned about pets over the years. They compress time. A dog's entire lifetime fits into a handful of seasons. A cat's maybe into a decade or two. But within that small window, they manage to pack more loyalty, personality, and comedy than most humans manage in 80 years. And when they go, they leave behind something surprisingly large. A shape in your life that used to be filled with fur and attitude. But tonight, sitting here, cigar glowing like a tiny lighthouse in the dark, I'm not feeling sad so much as grateful. Grateful for the years, grateful for the memories, grateful for the backyard that now contains a small chapter of life's story. Three loyal companions, three members of the home guard. Standing eternal watch over the tomatoes and the lawnmower. The cigars reaching the final third now, smoke getting richer. Coffee's sweetness is really deepening. And the rum glass, well, it appears to have been tragically emptied by mysterious forces beyond my control. Possibly taxation. So before we wrap up tonight's porch broadcast of Liberty on Nicotine, let me leave you with this thought. Freedom isn't always found in a grand speeches or political revolutions, but sometimes it's found in small rituals like a quiet porch, a good cigar, a loyal pet sleeping nearby. The simple knowledge that for this moment, at this one little moment, you are exactly where you're supposed to be. No permission required. Rest easy tonight, Tribble. The home guard is complete. Watson's on rodent patrol. Ava's wagging her security clearance. And somewhere out there beyond the porch light, I suspect you're already chasing the biggest sunbeam in the three universes. So until next time, my friends, light well, think freely, and never ever let anyone regulate the simple pleasures out of your life. This has been Liberty on Nicotine, signing off from the part front porch parliament.

SPEAKER_02 11:34

Sun down, I'm sitting by the shore.

SPEAKER_01 14:38

Freedom's the flavor in the smoke of mine.