The Joys of Pipe-smoking: The article with too-many hyphens

Recently, my life was unalterably changed. I speak not of the transition from highschool to the real life, nor any drug-related breakdown. No, I speak of that grand day when my very first serious tobacco-pipe came in the mail. But first, allow me to backtrack a little. For the last several months, or maybe the last year, my only experience with tobacco had been in cigarettes, both pre-rolled and roll-yer-own. While the "rollies" offered a great deal more satisfaction than the "20-pack" variety, both forms of smoking left something to be desired. Fast-forward to the afore-mentioned date: Pipe Day. From my first puff until the ones I am enjoying right as we speak, my Peterson Kinsale has filled my life with the richness that can only come once you start smoking tobacco, un-processed, un-filtered, un-adulterated pleasure.
I guess I really don't know where I'm going with this, so here's a haiku expressing the sentiment that only a moron would not have already gathered from that last, long-winded passage:

My dear Briar pipe
I enjoy smoking you
More than fags do dick.

P.S. I-still-hate-you-all

P.P.S. Buy a pipe, and overthrow your crush-proof prison.