Chew

On active duty in the Army I once tried to use chewing tobacco to stave off hunger. It worked. It wasn’t long before the names Levi Garrett and Beechnut were the titles of a daily staple. Chewing, the act of stuffing the moist, tasteful harvest of a tobacco field into my cheek, became a ritual. The byproduct is a satisfying, manly bulge, like your crotch the time that blonde quietly touched your thigh under the picnic table. Not a “Dip” but a true “Chew”, offered up by the five-finger mother lode drawn from a hand-filling pouch, not the wuss-ass, two finger pinch of wimpiness from a tiny tin container. It’s easily identified by the brown-black stream of spit which strikes like a tsunami against the wall of an empty soda cup, not the effeminate drop of spittle which drips from the chin of a beta male as he lightly twists his tiny tin of Copenhagen with his fingertips.

Chew adds soul to a man’s swagger, while stamping an exclamation point on the disdain displayed when spitting on the ground at someone’s feet.

I sat on a stone wall with a gal who worked at Fort Benning’s Officers Club and positioned my mouthful of Chew for expulsion, as it had run its course. “It looks like a turd” she said, crinkling her nose in a cute, feminine response. Oh, you betcha, darlin’. I then spat a moist load of testosterone infused pleasure which arched in a ballistic trajectory to splat audibly against the curb, its black wetness flowing like lava to the pavement.

It was a dentist who was the spoiler of my daily joy. He pointed out that I had gotten pre-cancerous cells on my tongue and he was certain that they were a gift from Messrs. Garrett and Beechnut. That was the day I quit indulging. The halt was immediate. My tongue is too valuable an asset for reasons well beyond speaking, eating, and drinking, for me to risk its well-being. To this day, however, I still feel the pangs of desire when I see the former sources of so much enjoyment and personal enhancement displayed wherever tobacco is sold. Chew itself took a significant hit when the anti-tobacco campaigns kicked into high gear.

Today, “The Chew” is enjoying a thriving resurgence. In the contemporary culture of social awareness, wherein a person “lives their best life” and presents “the best version of themselves”, television commercials lead the way. The football player who has bested his opponent on the field, helps him off the ground and smilingly states, “I got chew!” The female soccer player does the same with a member of the opposing team and states meaningfully, “I got chew!” A mother, whose daughter is working her way through the emotions of a difficult breakup, places a hand on her shoulder and in a quiet, comforting voice, whispers, “I got chew.”

And so it goes. With my memories of the past looming large, it’s heartwarming to hear that Chew is renewing its grip on the hearts and jowls of so many.

—
Dempsey 🌵