Over the course of my life I have taken nicotine into my body in about every way it’s possible to do so. Actually, that's not entirely true—it would be more accurate to say I’ve taken it in all the ways that are likely to kill me at some point. For some reason smoking only holds its tantalizing forbidden allure if I have a cloud of smoke to entertain myself as I while away the evening hours, watching the cigar slowly burn off the seconds of my life it represented before I lit it. 

 The only people on the planet who love a good conspiracy theory more than Americans are possibly the Russians. Both countries have something in common that has made them the premier oyster beds for the lovely little pearls of nonsense that are constantly being formed. During the Cold War, both governments were doing all kinds of things under the table like dispersing radioactive elements into the water supply to see what happened to pregnant women, and taking turns filling Cuba with soldiers and nuclear weapons like vengeful angels tipping out their vials into one of the bowls of wrath described in Revelations. As a citizen, these sorts of things can mess with your head as you lay it on what you assume is a new kind of hypoallergenic pillow at night.