Smoke Gets In Your Eyes
Barb Tarbox died last night and good riddance.
If you're not in Alberta you've probably not previously heard of her, though she was the second item on the CBC national news tonight.
She was a 41-year-old woman who contracted lung cancer after 29 years of smoking, up to two packs a day. Upon learning of her fate, she decided to preach the gospel to schoolchildren, which slots neatly into the governmental jihad on tobacco.
Tobacco: deadlier than plutonium, but more profitable. Especially to the government, which rakes in 800% more than what the tobacco companies get from it.
But don't let that foolish inconsistency hobble your inner goblin.
Graham Greene wrote that "A man chooses his death as surely as he chooses his suit."
That's probably a paraphrase, and don't ask me where or when or what I read it in.
Also, the feminists are probably at this very moment cranking up their latest argument:
"It's not faaaaaiiiiiirrrrr!!! Men get to choooooose!!!"
Well, women get to choose, too, and Ms Tarbox (if biology is destiny, then nomenclature comes a close second) chose to smoke heavily even though her own mother died of the same disease. Can we say: genetic predisposition?
To cancer. To addiction. To celebrity.
Because that's what Barb Tarbox became in the last months of her life. An addicted cancer celebrity who did the Scared Straight routine before shocked, tearful ninth-graders -- whipping off her hat to show her chemo-scalped skull, hectoring them with the awful details of her illness. It was all very dramatic, and from the TV clips that I've seen, she was good at it, a veritable Tony Robbins of non-smoking hip-hip-hooray.
The New Puritans. At least the old ones promised heavenly reward for earthly scraping; the new ones promise earthly reward for building a tower to God.
We all know how that turned out.