I was at my desk the other day, smoking a Jody Davis saddle Billiard and replaying Bugs Bunny cartoons in my head (Foghorn Leghorn: what a hoot) when my colleague, lead copywriter Truett Smith, happened by to talk about one of my pipe descriptions for the website. "Y'know," he said, "I don't recall seeing, 'This is the ugliest pipe on the planet' as a description before now. It's an audacious declaration."

"That pipe is the ugliest on the planet. If you find uglier, I'll happily amend that text to 'second-ugliest.'"

"But it's a subjective assessment. Everyone is different and someone will love that pipe. It would be a monotonous hobby if everyone shared your personal interests. We'd see nothing but Lovats and Billiards."

"And I commend others for knowing what they like, but they should understand that non-Lovats are conspicuously grotesque abominations."

Y'know," he said, "I don't recall seeing, 'This is the ugliest pipe on the planet' as a description before now. It's an audacious declaration."

"Even if that were true, it isn't really our style to criticize other people's preferences."

"Listen, I am very old and very wise and have been writing about pipes since—"

"Oh yes, I know; we all know. You've mentioned that before. But maybe we should describe pipes in celebration of the variety of pursuits in the pipe community. A little more context, perhaps?"

"Seems pretty self-contextualized to me."

"Even so, it might benefit from some nuance."

"I am very old and very wise—"

"Yes, yes, God knows we all know that. But about this pipe—"

"If you doubt that I'm an expert on ugliness, you're mistaken. I dare you to look me in the face and tell me I don't know about ugly. I had a pipe so ugly that a neighborhood toddler did a double backflip when he saw it and started quacking like a duck. Poor kid couldn't speak for months and still squawks like a mallard when he gets flustered. Don't talk to me about ugly; believe me, I'm qualified."

"I'm just saying—"

"I am very old and—"

"Yes, that's been established, but this pipe—"

"I once dated a girl so ugly—"

"No, no more stories about your dating years, we're talking about how—"

I had a pipe so ugly that a neighborhood toddler did a double backflip when he saw it and started quacking like a duck.

"My family had a bald, toothless goat so ugly—"

"Animal husbandry is not pertinent to—"

"I owned a '61 Mercury Comet so ug—"

"Please. No cars either. It's time to stay on topic."

We leveled neutral gazes at one another in a ponderous moment of silence.

"My dad's three-legged hunting dog was so—"

"Honestly, I don't know how to communicate with you. It seems like a simple thing, but when—"

"I am very ol—"

"Y'know what? Never mind. Let's leave it." He moved on, shaking his head in amused exasperation.

I returned to the antics of Foghorn Leghorn, but after a reasonable delay I rewrote the description. Truett and I had adequately entertained ourselves, and besides, he sure knows how to express a compelling ideology.