Better red (or pink) than dead

Today, in Oceantown, the citizens' lungs re-pinken; their blood pressures drop; while their livers continue the gentle swelling they've enjoyed for ages.
For the first time since fire was invented, I can walk into a bar, drink my face off, and not hack from the toxic grey haze that fills in the little spaces within my lungs.
That's right. I've had gills installed, and I'll just keep my head in the toilet all night.
No, dummy. They've made smoking in all public spaces illegal here in Nova Scotia. Bars, buildings, even outdoor patios will be stink-free. Anyone smoking within 4 metres of an air intake will get a ticket. Anyone smoking inside will be tazered.
No longer will shit-exhaling companions in drinking establishments foul the air with their rot-mouthed smoke breath. And the age of coming home smelling like an ashtray has finally closed. Only the stink of spilled alcohol will sully this sometime-reporter's typically odorous person.
Sure, the gutters on the streets of Oceantown will soon be completely filled with cigarette butts, and the waterfront, one of the few outdoor public places you can smoke, will look like a filter-tipped hepatitis snowstorm, but so long as I wear shoes and keep my mouth off the ground (generally a good idea anyway), I'll be stink-free (at least from outside sources), cough-free (except for colds my junior-high-school-teaching cousin brings home from work), and hangover-free (except, of course, when I drink too much).
To say goodye, I went out with four smoker friends yesterday night for a final puff indoors. About 10 years ago, someone or other passed a law that said smoking could only happen in little closed-off rooms within the bars. The cigarette companies paid to build them, and smoking continued. The doors to these rooms typically stayed open. Bars were still smoky. I still got lung-hangovers from being in them. But yesterday was the last day of that. As we discussed how much we'd take in return for cutting our own hands off, or what price we'd accept in return for killing our beloved pets, darts (hah) of smoke shot into my eyes and throat for the last time. Perpetual pinkeye cursed my lovely visage for the last time. And sudden asthmatic bursts of choking struck me with premature nostalga.
I'm going to put out a line of little felt black lungs to commemorate this date. December 1, 2006: the day I started going home smelling sweet as a rose who forgot his deodorant.
Unfortunately, I'm going to miss all my friends.
They're just going to stay home and smoke.