Wrapper: Cuban
Binder: Cuban
Filler: Cuban
Size: 5.875 x 56
Strength: Medium
Price: $42.00

 
THE WHOLE MEGILLAH:
Everybody is rockin’ tonight. Another Cuban. Another crazy price point. Another reader comes through for Waldorf (me) & Statler (my doppelganger).

It’s a pretty cigar. Oily and delicious. Serious heft. The wrapper looks like a road map of my synapses firing away as a result of overdosing on ketchup packets. The gorgeous-osity is spoiled by its aromas of barnyard and kitty litter. Adjunct and nearby are notes of teeny tiny floral, chocolate, and tuna fish.

The draw is splendid. I rear my head back and let out a loud guffaw, followed by choking noises. My PerfecDraw stands near my failing ball sack and snickers with a side eye aimed at me. I use my craw to grab it in one swipe. I toss it to the ground. I smother it with my compression stocking while I sing the national anthem of Kurthanistan. Silence. It is dead. You must learn to never let your cigar accessories have the upper hand or borrow your Diner’s Club card.

Where was I. The cold draw is much better than the smellovision: baking spices, clove, black pepper, caramel, chocolate, mint, and fresh parsley.

I gear up the industrial sized fans and air purifiers. The lights temporarily dim. I hear my Armageddon-like generator kick in. I’m good to go. I have my Mossberg in my mouth in case ICE barges in.

Big boy start. As it should. Cubans ain’t fucking around pricing shit…I must rely on the kindness of strangers who maul innocents for a living.

Fatitude. Rich notes immediately. The Trinidad I reviewed yesterday was underpopulated by the good citizens of Tastyville. This baby is singing to me in the key of B♯7Augmented3rdC♭. We all know that key from our polka channel playlists. Tap your hooves twice showing you acknowledge.

Construction is night and day from yesterday’s Cuban T-Dad. Nothing worse waiting for an expensive cigar to kick in…creating anxiety in our reptilian brains because we are doing the math in our heads.

Flavors are subservient to this blend’s mouthy finish that tastes like a refined salamander using its FoodShare benefits to buy cigarettes at the 7-11. I need a minute to process that. It’s deep. Speaking of which, my new electric upright bass arrives tomorrow. I am greasing up my hands with cod oil. A trick bassists have used for centuries.

Here they are: Caramel, geranium petals, vanilla paste, dark cocoa, espresso, black pepper, cloves, and cinnamon. Nothing you haven’t tasted a million times but it comes with a smack in the puss that tells you the Cubanos weren’t fucking around when they produced this gentile.

Very slow roll. Thick and bulbous. Glorious smoke output that should be on camera. Sweet and Savory are perfectly balanced. Strength is a solid medium. The body is medium/full. And I’m doing the hokey pokey in my PJ’s.

Every musician revels in setting up their gear for a gig. It can be breathtaking if you have help. What every tired musician hates is breaking all that shit down after the gig. Getting home at 2 or 3am. And then your pets wake you up at 6:30 because they are hungry. Good times.

This blend is the perfect example of either I like it or I don’t. A rookie will know this is a good cigar without ever having read Cigar Aficionado.

So, I have time to kill here. I know. No, I don’t. I need to go online and steal a good rock n roll story from the other reviewers. Ha.

The ash is very delicate and can’t hang on…less than an inch is too much weight for this feather duster.

The Gollum will be a two-hour smoke. That’s $7.14 per inch. There’s a filthy joke in there somewhere. I’ll wait.

The first third was an exciting precursor to the albinative sweet spot fortune. Ob-la-di.

We were auditioning to be in an upcoming movie as the house band for a club. Big shots were in the audience. They already loved our music so this was a slam dunk. So what did our lead singer do to allay his angst? That’s right…shoot a little scooch of heroin to calm himself. Within the first 30 seconds of our first song, the dope fiend lost his balance and fell backwards into the large drum kit. It was as if the spirit of The Who visited us. It was a domino effect as equipment went skinny side up. The dumb fuck got up, dusted himself off, and with a big grin, told the audience, “Ooops, sorry.” A minute before his apology, the big shots left the building.

So bloody smooth. As if given three coats of lubricant. With a sandy reservoir tip. Why is it that we only tried to have sex on the beach once? You know the answer, look up my number.

A sombrero bready quality that makes Boris and Natasha swoon like incandescent classics. A bit of grape jam is in play. Honeysuckle in both taste and wafting aromas. Caramel leads the pack. Slight orange zest. Little touch of wet hickory. Definitive black walnuts. Man, what a sophisticated blend. Worth $42? Nope, but it sure is fun. This is a special occasion cigar. I don’t want to be around people when I smoke it. I want to be alone and sulk. My favorite things.

The cap shreds. Like Bonamassa in tune.

The second third is…oh wait. It goes out. Damn. A glitch. I’ve got a lighter. How lucky am I.

The second third is David Blaine on benzodiazepines. Raging to be omnipotent on its throne of plenty. Or in English, really good cigar.

I was coming out of the Fender Sound House on Tottenham Court Rd. Miles Copeland set up an account for the band. Stewart and I went there regularly to hang out and schmooze. As I left, I grabbed the glass door. Grabbing the door from the outside, was Paul McCartney. I froze. I stared. I couldn’t move. He said, “Can I come in, mate?” I nodded while only clicks and whistles emitted from my giant open maw. He winked at me with a big smile as he passed and said, “Thanks guvnor’” I wanted to go back inside, and speak with the man in the King’s English, but I chickened out. I still have wet dreams. Don’t let your children grow up to be bass players.

This is going to be a 2-1/2 hour cigar. I’m fine with this. What else can I write. I don’t know. But I can’t wipe the big smile from my puss.

Transitions don’t square up against the opposition. They are relevant but are small potatoes. The marquee says Ponsonby Britt & Snidely Whiplash Performing Here Tonight…which in Albanian means Yippy ki ya mother fuckers. My psychological testing showed an inconsistency between cognizance and morose behaviour.

Boy, am I glad I have rich friends.

The sweet spot is phenomenal. Like a sunrise after frying all night long.

I had just broken my wrist in a bicycle accident. Scroll forward a few weeks and I dropped my first taste of acid. I was with a guitarist friend who always declared that he knew everything and was smarter than everyone. He kept hallucinating that I was using my cast to block a wedge down the center of my head. We spent hours with him holding my cast gently, while I kept saying, Ow.

The last third is cherries and cream. I just realized I’ve left that out this entire time. Creamy. Big time. I gotta pay attention. I’ve got a feeling.

You don’t need no stinkin’ flavor wheel. You don’t need to follow anyone’s’ review. It’s all about the moments in time alone with this blend. How lucky are the Cubans to call these just plain cigars while they are scrounging up parts for their ’57 Chevies. I had a ’69 Impala Custom. I always had to drive big cars or vans or trucks because I was a bass player with a big load.

I’ve got ash all over me. You never have a dumbwaiter when you need one.

RATING: 97

Categories: CIGAR REVIEWS

Tags: cigar reviews, cigar reviews by the katman, cigars, H. Upmann Magnum 56 Edicion Limitada 2015 | Cigar Reviews by the Katman, katman, phil kohn