Social Media & FBAMM

Divorce in the Age of Social Media


Image By:  leemueller

(Excerpt From Facebook Ate My Marriage.  Republished with permission from Hell Bent Press and the Author)

Chapter 25:  More Thoughts on Cigars and

Mrs. Towbridge Writes Again

The question has been asked, “As a physician, how can you smoke a cigar?”

To which I respond, “By starting out with the very best selection of cured and aged tobaccos, rolled in a flawless whole leaf binder, pressed into molds, wrapped in a flawless whole leaf wrapper, trimmed, aged further and kept at an ideal temperature and humidity.”

The more persistent will renew their protest by arguing, “But as a physician…”

To which I will continue, “Clipping the end, only after having rolled the cigar between thumb and forefinger to gauge the tightness of the roll and determine the smoothness of the draw.”

“But as a physician!” They will now exclaim, exasperated.

“Then, one may elect to warm the cigar prior to lighting it,” I continue undeterred, “but it is my preference to simply light it at this point with a butane lighter, as matches tend to have residual sulfur fumes that put me off. Then I take slow, steady draws from the cigar to nurse a healthy ash and to enjoy the full bodied taste of a hand-rolled cigar.”

It is here that all but the bloody minded “Minor Virtues Police” wander off in disgust. The MVPs want me to justify my license and existence in view of my renewed passion for cigars. As I have still more court dates ahead, and judges tend to look with disapproval on rude gestures in public as well as battery when considering the question of child custody, I explain to the MVPs, “Because I choose to.”

There are few things that aren’t killing us. Most of the things that are doing so, we generally do not enjoy. For example, my soon-to-be ex: I did not and have not enjoyed her for at least two years. But it was only in that moment when my eyes were forcibly pried open, by the imminence of death, that I realized that she was bad for me. There are, of course, phthalates in plastics, to which I have been exposed for over three decades, magnetic fields from appliances, sunburns, bad and burnt food. If you add to that those things that are marginally pleasant – alcohol, sex and good food – we find that everything is killing us. So while the final arbiter in my case may be a bored certified nursing assistant with a collection of plastic bags, in the end life equals death: net zero experience. So, how you choose to experience that net zero is up to you. Having studied the human condition, how it is conceived, develops and dies, I will take my cigars. If I were to confess the full truth of the matter, every physician, sooner or later, develops a peculiar understanding of death and disease. So in my case, the average human mouth speaks not only of its owners eating habits but also of his or her sexual proclivities and other aspects of life to which they would never willingly admit.

The probing of the cavities, the search for precancerous tissues, the receding gum lines, and other signs of the general decadence of the contemporary lifestyle that is destroying a mouth which should last a lifetime, are all the more troubling to observe when you realize that the owner of the mouth has enjoyed precious few moments of the process that corrodes and destroys that mouth. I, however, enjoy my cigars.

Men half my age while away the hours with magazines and other images portraying the idealized female – and in some cases the act, or a parody thereof, of human sexual relations – I read cigar catalogs. It is with a fervent longing that I consider the VSOP, Gurkha or any of the other worthy entrants into the 90 point plus club of cigars. These, like other little joys, presently exist outside my budget. But they are a to-be-aspired-to pleasure, for which I presently substitute reasonable but inexpensive cigars.

It was while retrieving the latest catalog from the mailbox I noticed something unsightly, unseemly and – to quote a section of the association charter – “Offensive to the eye.” It was a handbill, on canary yellow paper with black print, taped to the streetlight that sits in the corner of my lawn. Another canary yellow notice was posted on the stop sign at the end of my court. I made a mental note that matters were clearly becoming worse in the Balboa community, now that Audrey Towbridge was occupied with her little Alexander. Someone was likely to complain, who knows, it might even be me.

Retrieving the catalog and other mail from the mailbox, and ignoring the eyesores of the posted handbills, I returned to my home and found, much to my surprise and chagrin, a letter to my attention from none other than Mrs. Audrey Towbridge – the unmourning widow – and owner of a recent fine example of a hybrid terrier.


Dear Mr. Lynn,

Your help would be very much appreciated. Alexander, my beloved little terrier, has gone missing. Enclosed please find a dozen flyers with his information. Please post and share these with anyone you can think of who might have seen him.


Thank you for your help!





Not only was the script she wrote in gentle, flowing and passionate, but the fact that she acknowledge the absence of DeeAnn also was a nice touch. The flyers printed on a canary yellow paper that I now recognized from my trip to the mailbox featured a picture of the missing animal. The picture, while in black-and-white, was clearly a copy of a properly done professional photograph of the little monster – the sort pet photographers shoot. Below the picture were the details of Alexander’s vital statistics and Mrs. Towbridge’s phone number.

Outside my front door I heard that familiar chittering noise. I grabbed my phone and a pitching wedge.

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Text Copyright 2011 Cusper Lynn


Text Copyright 2011 Hellbent Press


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