"Submitted for your approval. An unassuming man living an unassuming existence. While aided by all the technologies and rights of his day, his ties to the outside world are slim. You see, he is part of a persecuted minority. He is - (DRAMATIC MUSIC CUE) - a cigar smoker."

Meet Wayne Knight. By night, ubiquitous television and film character actor; most notably of late from "Seinfeld," Space Jam and "Third Rock From the Sun." By day, a skulking vagrant loitering around Tinsel Town cigar dens and smoke shops. In short, your typical Hollywood Butt Slut. Wayne loves his cigars. He will suck on anything with a Caribbean band on it. He once tried to light up the stage at The Troubadour and ended up in Cedars Sinai with second and third-degree lip burns. When NBC institutes its "Must Puff TV" line-up, Wayne will get his own show.

In real life, Wayne is as accessible and regular as his screen persona is obnoxious. But, without doubt, the role he finds to be his most demanding stretch is that of a loving husband and loyal partner to his wife, Paula, a virulently aggressive anti-smoker.

So when he's not enthralling adoring fans who cry out, "Newman!", he's running from wifey-poo, desperately trying to enjoy his great passion, his obsession with smoking cigars. To find a precious few moments to envelope himself in the exhaust of a Honduran robusto is Wayne's greatest pleasure and pain. The policy at home is not just "don't ask, don't tell;" it's "whatever you do don't get caught." But this tightly rolled albatross he wears around his neck is but a small price to pay for the love of his wife and his smokes.

So Wayne engages in high-level "stogie-fuge" and "ash-pionage" to avoid a "tobacconfrontation." Soda cans, Playboy magazines, even toilet seats have been known to hide Wayne's contraband; the latter, of course, giving his cigar a rather rich, dark almost nutty flavor.

The man has been spotted on vacation, shivering, pacing alone on a verandah, long after the family has gone to sleep, a cigar clenched between his frozen fingers. He's been seen in five-star hotels schlepping the concierge from room to room until he finds the perfect one with just the right strategic cross-breeze so that his offending smoke will waft outside, away from Paula's more gentle nostrils. He has been picked out of L.A. cigar shops, chain-smoking away his off days, waxing poetically about the subtleties and aftertastes of his most recent aromatic acquisitions.

One lone afternoon, Wayne happened upon a kindred spirit, a brother-in-arms, a cigar in fingers. The gentleman, a millionaire, is a man with more cars than most of us have cigars and more cigars than most of us have square feet in our homes. And the man, with over eight thousand square feet in his home, was lamenting that even with all that space, the only place his wife lets him smoke is the broom closet.

But Wayne's greatest challenge must surely be going home after a long day at work in Hollywood, a town squarely at the forefront of the cigar hysteria; an industry steeped in cigar juice, where every other writer, producer, key grip and production assistant is a leaf blower of one sort or another; a people who recklessly embrace the clannish and mysterious nature of cigar smokers; and a place where he is lauded as a rising star and luminary. Yet, in the sanctity of his in home, Wayne must shed his smoking jacket and bathe away his cigar smoke residue just so his wife will let him through the front door.