There's a guy that sits on the bench outside the bar next to my house. He always has a cigar in his hand. He never stops it, that cigar in his mouth and his raspy voice chattering about sports. Whenever I walk by, he's always blowing on that cigar. It's as if he's the only one on this planet, blowing away by himself.  He always has beer to go along, like ornaments on a Christmas tree. 
I bet he's part of all that rattle on Thursday nights when I try to go to sleep. All that screaming and hollering, he's a part of it. The craziness of a football game and the sports atmosphere. Always goes on and on. It's almost like they're watching football when it's not even on. That's the intensity of his life, drinking and smoking and having fun. Never dies down, the three things that he loves.