Zack Newkirk, staff
It was a day like any other, only now, the Marlboro man was older. His chiseled jaw still sported just the right amount of sexy stubble, except presently it was grey rather than cobalt. The rugged ol’ silver fox, keepin’ on like always.
He lit up his Marlboro red and surveyed the fence line. “Smooth,” he said to himself. “Now I’m in flavor country.” He stroked his horse’s pitch-dark mane and blew out a ring of delicious Philip Morris tobacco smoke.
He’d had many a conquest in his day; after all, he was a sexy, rugged, chiseled cowboy who smoked Marlboro reds and looked at fences all day. He had a whole mess of denim jackets and denim pants. Heck, his ten-gallon hat was denim, and so was his Miata.
“Flavor Country,” he cooed. “Smooth.”
Also, his horse wore denim. He had a custom-made denim suit tailored for the horse. I didn’t say that before, but I should have.
He’d live a hundred more sexy years; he was sure of that. Heckfire, at sixty, the Marlboro man was in the prime of his life. He was taggin’ tail and gatherin’ mail every day. Shootin’ quail and chuggin’ ale. Crushin’ snails and YouTubin’ fails. Drivin’ trucks and shootin’ pucks. Drinkin’ brews and lovin’ Jews. Eatin’ steak and —
Suddenly the Marlboro man stepped in a dadgum gopher hole. He flipped somethin’ awful, then careened down the hill, breaking every neck he had along the way. “Smooth!… Country!… Flavor!…” he yowled. He bounced like a ball dribbled by one o’ them newfangled basketball players. Further and further down the hill he fell, until he ended up in the bottom of the Grand Canyon. Needless to say, he were dead.
Don’t smoke. Not never.
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