The first wave of Baby Boomers encountered an American culture that venerated cigarette smoking as a cool thing to do.

Stars of stage, screen and television perpetuated the myth that real men may not blow your house down like the Big Bad Wolf, but they sure know how to huff and puff.

Actor Humphrey Bogart personified coolness with a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth or wedged between two fingers.

Thanks to icons like Bogey and the Marlboro man, kids growing up in the ’60s learned to admire smokers at an early age.

I’ll never forget the preacher who bragged on all the outstanding men in his church — out standing behind the sanctuary smoking a cigarette.

He must have been so proud of them.

Meanwhile, singer Jim Gilbert extolled “holy smokers who want to see the Lord so much, they’re shortening their days.”

Army basic training reinforced the notion that smokers deserve special privileges.

Whenever our drill sergeant barked, “At ease,” he followed with “smoke ’em if you got ’em.” Before dismissing the formation, the drill sergeant dispatched all trainees to “police the company area,” which included picking up cigarette butts.

That’s where I drew the line. Rather than pick up butts I didn’t stub, I perfected the art of burying a butt under sand or gravel with one flick of a combat boot.

Perhaps cigarette smokers’ privileged status arose because of their death-defying bravery.

You have to admire someone bold enough to suck fumes filled with carcinogens in defiance of the surgeon general’s warning that “cigarette smoking may be hazardous to your health.”

In recent years, the political correctness police targeted tobacco users and lobbied to designate many places as smoke free.

Despite negative publicity, many smokers are environmentalists at heart. They consider cigarette butts biodegradable and useful as fertilizer.

I can’t walk more than 15 feet down any street in my neighborhood without stepping over a few de-Bogarted butts stuck in the cracks of the pavement.

In some spots, ashtray loads of butts have been dumped on the street. Just think of the nutrients those butts will release when they decompose — in 25 years.

Still, you have to respect someone willing to risk a $500 first-offense fine for littering and up to $2,000 in repeat-offender fines, plus 180 days in jail, all for the sake of the environment.

Puffers also may be the most generous folks on the planet.

In “Don’t Bogart Me,” the Fraternity of Man, an underground rock group, introduced mainstream America to a form of sharing characteristic of the hippie counterculture.

The lyrics say, “Don’t Bogart that joint, my friend; pass it over to me.”

Of course, “joint” refers to a marijuana cigarette, but don’t let the details get in the way of a good story. It’s a cigarette nonetheless.

“Bogart,” a throwback term to Humphrey Bogart’s practice of holding onto his smokes, means keeping the weed to oneself.

The neighborly thing would be to pass it around and allow others to “get high with a little help from my friends,” a la Joe Cocker.

The spirit of “Don’t Bogart Me” is alive today.

Apparently, one or more neighborly smokers hear “pass it over to me” every time they walk by my driveway.

Almost every day, several freshly de-Bogarted butts grace the landscape of my neatly groomed yard.

Before naysayers accuse me of intolerance, please be advised that I’ve been tolerant of cigarette smoking for a long, long time.

I still remember trying to hold my breath when my future in-laws puffed away in the front seat, while I rode with then 15-year-old Momz in the back seat.

University policy permitted smoking in class back in the ’60s.

Invariably, the prof assigned my seat between two student puffers.

Some professors stroked their sense of self-expression by lighting up, too.

Prof O’Connor was the most theatrical smoker I ever met.

Unlike Bill Clinton, he really inhaled, down to his toes.

The portly prof would take a deep drag, snap his head back, and spew a smoky cloud toward the ceiling with the force of a wood-fired locomotive.

Despite traumatic episodes from my youth, I harbor no ill will.

Puff that cigarette all you want. Just don’t expect me to pick up after you.

A Litterbutt.com bumper sticker says, “The World is not your ashtray.” Neither is my driveway.

That’s why I’m asking the smokers in my neighborhood to please Bogart that butt, my friend; don’t pass it over to me.

Properly dispose of your cigarette butts, and God’s green Earth and all living things will love you, too.

Besides, it’s a really cool thing to do.

Bart Cannon is a Cleburne resident and can be reached at cannonb71@yahoo.com.