“Sandy,” Morg told me, “I hate marijuana. I don’t particularly care if people smoke, but I don’t have to care about it to hate it. The goddamned dope fiends can do as they please—as long as they don’t please around me. Smoke somewhere off in private and we can both enjoy ourselves.” His face got red and he shook his head in disgust.
“The worst are the ones always banging the drum to legalize pot. Goddamn insufferable. I don’t give a shit what they smoke. I’m not sending the law after anyone. But I just don’t care for those bastards who think we oughta change the law because they wanna get high. They can already do that! But asking the world to change because of their smelly habit, well, that’s too much. I enjoy a cigar every now and again, Sandy. I never demand to take it into the restaurant.”
He just sat there until the thought of cigars seemingly moved him to reach into his drawer and pull out a cheap one. He puffed thoughtfully. “It’s called respect, Sandy. Kids these days. I respect their right to be a dick. They should respect my right not to hafta see—and smell—them doing it.”