Wrapper: Nicaraguan
Binder: Nicaraguan Ometepe
Filler: Nicaraguan Estelí and Jalapa
Size: 5.75 x 54 C Major
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $15.00
Factory: Plasencia Cigars S.A.
Release Date: March 2019

My cigars received 5 months of naked humidor time. Dry boxed 2 days.

THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
As a bonafide cigar addict, I felt the need to buy something I can’t afford, or need. I bought the industrial strength JetLine Jl-Villano V Cigar Cutter. A massive tool weighing in at over 4oz. What else weighs 4oz? 20 quarters. A quarter loaf of bread. 10 AAA batteries. And a flaccid white guy’s penis. The cutter is not cheap ($40 from Cigar Page. $70 from everyone else) but it stands as a marvel of solid engineering designed for the long run instead of expected planned obsolescence. Spring loaded. Squeeze grip like a 5lb trigger pull. 3” tall. 4” when open. Note my photo. It takes a clean and meaty chunk from my cigar. But it works just as well on small cigars. No shit. I love mine. Yes, I paid full price. D’oh.

Yesterday, I reached out to Cigar Page to pry some lubricant from their nicotine stained fingers to make buying a V cutter easier for everyone but me. Use the promo code JET15 to receive 20% off the cost of the $40 cutter. Bringing the price down to $32. I stand behind this tobacco reaper. If you have any issues with the cutter, call 1-876-ORK-MORK. Sure. Your $10 V cutter is nice. But not as nice as the JetLine Jl-Villano V Cigar Cutter. And…I’m spent.

My PerfecDraw is at the ready. Moose & Squirrel stand at attention. There is a plug. The dawn of a new day appears. Dr. Rod is draped in linen. Is he dead? No. He rises from his shower chair. The man towers over the young ferrets at his feet. Their jaws drop in wonder. The linen slips to the floor. The ferrets run. I snake the cigar with my PerfecDraw. And Rod is a whisp in the mist.

The cold draw is standard fare helped nicely with tongue aromata of dark chocolate, cinnamon, cloves, and black pepper. The oiliness on the wrapper is transferable to my lips. It is an Italian festa.

The cigar grandstands with its first puffs. Coffee, sweet butter, fruitiness, chocolate, and spiciness.

This is a highly rated cigar. It’s been around for 5 years. I’m not going to bring anything new to the table you haven’t already heard. Clearly, the cigar blend speaks the truth to all. Consistency is the fait accompli for our filthy little habit.

The natural sweetness wins me over early. Strength is medium so as to lull me into false witness. This is my fourth cigar. Spoiler Alert: Each time I got kicked in the nuts during the last third.

Construction is outstanding. A solid cigar that takes its time. Each stick took well over two hours. I took a piss, I ate a shark sandwich, I read my horoscope, and I spent 4 minutes on Porn Hub. Quality construction.

The first inch was all about saying hello. A buttery and earthy devil. The smell transported my nose to a far-off land where bourbon is stored in oak barrels. Downtown Milwaukee.

50 years from now, the historicity of those that blend brilliant cigars will be muddled by the usual suspects who hoisted their petard and screamed, “Look at me. I gave just enough to make a buck. I saw an in, and I took it.” They will be forgotten and not forgiven. Rightly so.

I didn’t make much money playing music over the long haul. But I had a blast. I can tell stories that can bore tens of people at a time.

Transitions are smooth. Incremental and velvety. The second inch sees its power increase to medium/full. Uh-oh. The first half was cigar-illy delightful but the second half, my lads, is where the pudding is.

Coffee, dark chocolate, raspberry cream, richness, complexity, spicy, doesn’t taste like your typical Nicaraguan puro, cherry mimosa, and pubescent glow.

A photo of the sharp burn would be apropos…but then I’d have to unplug my butt plug and get up. Microsoft Word is confused with the term butt plug.

I never tire of watching the ash attain critical mass. Daring it to fall on my petunia.
The second half lands. The preamble was not without a bulbous teste. Note: When a cigar is charming, it is very difficult not give in to the urge to constantly puff…the futile grasping of the brass ring. The cigar finds little time in the ashtray because your instinct is to say to, no one in particular, “It’s mine. Go away. Get your own.” You feel like you’re not going to get all the goodness this burning hedge offers if you place the cigar down for a few moments. If this happens to you, you’re in the right place. You belong to the brethren of the leaf.

The double cigar bands have been seemingly brazed together. With each cigar, they’ve refused to be undun. Ripping and shredding like the Tooth Fairy. Nicking the wrapper is impossible to avoid. Wednesday mornings, papers didn’t come.

Just a solid fucking cigar. (That’s 1).

And then there is solace and serenity. Either that or my mind is blown. The strength is resplendent without nicotine poisoning. It encourages endurance. A good blend for adventurous newbies. Noel Coward will write a play about this cigar.

If you are an avid musician, you love The Beatles. Timeless song writing. A Dutch band called The Analogues have a YouTube channel. They spent years learning how to perfectly mimic everything on the last four Beatles’ albums. Every note is there. Nothing improvised. They don’t make asses of themselves by mimicking the mop tops’ appearances. These are serious musicians. If you wondered how the Fab Four created those tunes that they never played live, check it out.

Radiantly complex. Smoothness rachets up. Flavors were canonized in the first two inches. Now they are expounded upon. Rolling with my homies. Super rich. Each puff is sheer delight. Don’t think about smoking one during Daniel’s “Let’s see” period. It is a waste of a good cigar. A few months is all it takes to experience the blender’s intent. Worth the wait.

I’ve mentioned my Maine Coon, Sammy countless times in the last 9 years. Maine Coons are notoriously huge animals. I can’t stress how smart the breed of cat is. How smart is he? Two days ago, we were in the living room, and he began hocking up a furball. He stood over errant extension cords, so I quietly gave him a one-word order, “Stop.” He immediately halted his dry heaving. He looked at me for guidance. I pointed to an open place a couple feet away. He walked to where I pointed and coughed up his belated theater of puke. Imagine if you could get your friends, or your brother-in-law, to follow directions like Sammy. I bet your wife wishes you were Sammy. But then Sammy is nutless. You still have yours.
Sammy drunk and passed out:

I much prefer the blues shuffle version of “Revolution” over the fast version.

I am smoking the Aging Room Bin No. 2 on a partially empty stomach. I’m fine. Thanks for asking. I’m sorry to admit that in my old age, strong cigars have lost their sparkle. I prefer a medium strength blend. Medium/full on occasion. I can no longer get to the finish line with a full-strength cigar.

You ask: Is the cigar good, or is it ain’t? It is. It really is. With the promo codes below, the price dips to much less than $15 per stick. Three sizes: 5.7 x 54, 5 x 52, 6 x 60.

You can purchase the Aging Room Bin No.2 from my sponsors: Small Batch Cigar (10% off with promo code: katman) and Cigar Page (15% off with promo code: AGING15).

RATING: 94

And now for something completely different (An Oldie but Popular Goodie):

We played a lot of universities in the 70’s in Great Britain. There were very few arenas. Universities had large auditoriums that could seat a thousand people…with no shortage of SRO. SRO was a big thing for the Brits in the 70’s. I don’t know how they did it. Especially for a crap band like us.

At one of these universities, the student body president; a young lady of 22, gave us her personal office to use as a dressing room.

All the food accoutrement was there, but we couldn’t find a bottle opener. The prez put her head in and asked if we needed anything. We pointed to the table full of beer and made the hand motion of opening said beer. She grabbed her very personal opener from her desk and presented it to us. She wagged her finger and said she must get it back. We had just been warned.

After the gig, we were chilling out. Exhausted, sweating, and flopping on the furniture in the makeshift dressing room unbefitting rock stars such as Curved Air.

The roadies stood guard at the door. One roadie peeked in and said that there was a persistent groupie who wanted to meet the band. We all shook our heads no. Naturally, Darryl gave him the OK. I looked at him with a WTF attitude. I didn’t realize he had a devious plan.

In walked this pretty chick wearing a paisley muu muu and earth shoes. And not looking particularly hygienic.

She sat between Darryl and I on one of two small couches. Darryl leaned into me and whispered that he could have her humping a small orange juice bottle within 5 minutes. I laughed and shook my head. I may have even snorted. I’d seen a lot on the road, but this was fucking nuts. I bet him a fiver he would not, and could not, accomplish this.

Sonja was stretched out on a couch across from us watching everything. Sonja was not shy about her bisexuality. After the original Curved Air broke up in 1972, she became a Playboy bunny at the London Playboy club. While I was in the band, her bunny friends (with the same sexual leanings) would show up at the London gigs and she would always leave arm in arm with several of them, looking at us over her shoulder with a shit eatin’ grin on her face. The next day, she would torture us with details.

Darryl started laying well-practice bullshit on Ms. Earth Mama telling her that people should be free to do what they want, to express themselves, etc. She just nodded.
Darryl grabbed the empty orange juice bottle and played submarine pushing the bottle up her arms and thighs. Then in a quick motion, he lifted her muu muu and put the bottle next to bare thighs.

She made insincere comments asking him to stop, meanwhile; her moaning was loud and passionate.

Sonja’s eyes lit up. She was now having a good time.

And with a swoosh, the bottle was inserted into her quedgie. She wore no panties…unless they were standing in a corner outside the dressing room.

Francis Monkman, who was very prim and proper, did no drugs, did not drink, and meditated, jumped over to participate by grabbing the last 1/8” end of the bottle so as not to touch much of anything; and proceeded to jack hammer the empty bottle.

Apparently, neither Darryl nor Francis were doing a well enough job, so the girl grabbed the bottle away from the boys. She leaped off the couch and laid on her back in the middle of the floor. Her dress was up around her waist. Her legs went vertical in the V position above her.

She began using the bottle how she wanted it used.
We all just sat and watched. Rock n roll was good.

The door of the office suddenly flung open. It was the student body school president coming back for her one-dollar bottle opener. We pointed and said it was on her desk.
The Prez’s eyes were like saucers when she saw the chick on the floor and what she was doing.

Rather than screaming and running out of the office, she crossed the room to her desk. She gingerly stepped over the girl with one giant step; got her bottle opener, stepped back over the girl and left in a huff. Could have been a minute and a huff.

It all came to an end minutes later and the roadies escorted her back to the hotel where she willingly gave it up as the hardest working men in show business took turns making her a happy groupie. It was reported to us in the morning that she kept asking if the band was going to join in.

A year later, same university…and there she was again. We told the roadies that once was enough. Once more with feeling, she returned to the hotel with the roadies.

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS

Tags: Aging Room Bin No. 2 | Cigar Reviews by the Katman, aging room cigars, cigar reviews, cigars, general cigar, katman, phil kohn