A man walked into the store with a burned-down cigar hanging out of his mouth. Stationed in the front of the store, greeting customers, I welcomed the man but kindly pointed out that there was no smoking in the mall.
"It's not lit! See?"
The customer spoke to me as if it were an embarrassing error on my part. He also sounded as if he'd been annoyed by this comment in every store he'd been too, keeping up his cultivated image of toughness through tobacco even at the expense of A) constant annoyance and B) that thing was getting spiti-soaked down to the core, from the looks of it.
Some men refuse to enter a lingerie store. Others will do so, but only under the condition that their machosity is undeniably represented, requiring a physical filter of every word they utter inside the hallowed halls of panties. As if taking in the perfumed air is akin to breathing in a graveyard, with the promise of a vague but dire consequence that must be avoided at all costs.
Though without it being lit it just looks like a soggy poop in some big smelly guy's mouth.