Every now and then, while picking up trash in the front
yard, I find a pack of cigarettes, almost full. I do a quick scan of my limited
Biblical knowledge to remember if Revelation mentions anything about a plague
of Pall Mall’s, but I know what really happened here. I live on a busy highway,
which means my yard is the receptacle for the garbage our mouth-breathing
motorists believe simply vanishes from existence when they toss it out of the
window. And sometimes, among the Burger King and Trojan brand refuse, there is
a fresh pack of smokes. This indicates that someone just “quit smoking.”
