Since my last article, in which I gave my faithful readers several pointers on how to quit smoking, I have had a new experience which has been largely integral in keeping me from starting up again. Now, I know my readership has been desperately awaiting another column from me, so today I am going to discuss the pros and cons of my new friend, the herbal cigarette.

For those of you who may be confused, let me endeavor to explain. An herbal cigarette is completely nicotine-free, completely tobacco-free, and comprised only of pretty things you find in nature. Apparently, this includes marshmallows.

I don’t want to ask; I prefer to be a lemming.

Now here’s the deal. As any smoker will tell you, the addiction is two-fold. Obviously, your body craves the nicotine from cigarettes. Yet, if this were the only addiction, then why do the patch and the nicotine gum have such high failure rates? Simple. The other part of the addiction is the physical aspect of smoking. Sucking the smoke into your lungs. Feeling the chemicals infuse your body. Slowly exhaling and getting nasty looks from others. Blissful.

I decided to battle the actual physical addiction to nicotine first, and then deal with the oral/physical fixation. So, off I went to a local tobacco shop, where a very polite, respectful gentleman with multiple bolts stuck/pierced/affixed to his head patiently explained the difference between the various brands of nicotine-free cigarettes.

For my first pack, I chose a vanilla-flavored herbal cigarette. I held on to that pack for three days before I went out to the bars with my friends, and the urge became so great, that I pulled one out and lit up.

Nothing has ever tasted so bad in my entire life. I apparently made a face and several noises that were reminiscent of a camel gargling.

The bar was fairly quiet, and as my friends struggled to stop laughing, I was eyeing the bartender, waiting for him to come over and order me to extinguish the thing. He didn’t.

He was reading the newspaper, and as the noxious smoke wafted over to him, his head suddenly snapped up like a marionette’s. He immediately began running up and down the bar, trying to figure out which garbage can was on fire.

My friends found this hilarious. I wasn’t laughing yet. I had reached over the bar, grabbed a bar-towel off the counter, and was furiously trying to wipe the taste off my tongue.

That pack lasted me several days and was more successful than electric-shock therapy. I’d reach for my habitual cigarette, light up, inhale, make a noise like a barking frog, drop the cigarette, and violently stomp on it. As a side note, I’d like to add that this process is a great deterrent to panhandlers. Now they see me coming and cross the street.

For the most part, I would only smoke those things out at the bars, when the urge to smoke was at its most unstoppable. To be honest, they do the trick. If I have one of these in my hand, I am not flipping out with desperation. Plus, on the upside, I’m usually so drunk I don’t mind the taste.

When I finished that pack, I returned to the tobacco shop, determined to find a better-tasting cigarette. This time, I got the cherry-flavored ones. Now, I knew that it was probably not going to taste pleasant, but even I was not prepared for the absolute awfulness of this thing.

It tasted like a hairball that was fished out of a drain, spat upon by someone eating a cherry cough drop, and rolled in a used diaper.

Mmmmmm.

I think the best part of that pack was that I headed off several smokers before they could start. You know that posse of high-school dropouts that hangs out on State Street every night? Always trying to beg smokes off passerby? I gave them each a cigarette. I guarantee they’ll never bother me for a smoke again. I could hear them making noises from two blocks away.

Around this time, I met a guy who I thought was Mr. Perfect. He smoked, and although it was tempting to backslide, I was determined not to touch nicotine. He asked me to go out to dinner one night, and I agreed. I knew it would be a difficult temptation, so I went back to the smoke shop once again to try a third pack of nicotine-free cigarettes.

This time, I let the shopkeeper with all the bolts in his head decide which brand I should buy.

I explained to him that I had a hot date that night, and that I wanted an herbal cigarette that didn’t stink. He recommended the ones in the green box. Folks at home, listen to me: Whatever you do, do not ever, ever, get the herbal cigarettes that come in the green box. The green box is evil.

The cigarettes that come in the green box are an expectorant. Which means they make you cough. They clean your lungs up, by making you cough all the icky stuff up. I smoked for eight years, and Mr. Bolt-head decided I need to start an expectorating cigarette the night I have a big date.

I discreetly went through about 23 napkins before our first drinks arrived. I got my goodnight kiss on the forehead and he hasn’t called for a second date yet.

And so continues the saga of the ex-smoker. I haven’t had nicotine in what seems like ages, and I am down to very few puffs of the herbal ones each day. I recommend them to those serious about quitting smoking, because they are helpful just by their sheer vileness.

And if you need help picking out a decent pack, wait until I’m in the smoke shop and ask me. I’ll be going back to the smoke shop sometime this week with a really big magnet, and Mr. Bolt-head and I are going to discuss why he suggested the green box when he knew I had a date.

Taniquelle Thurner ([email protected]) is a senior majoring in journalism.