It’s not a word, and to quote George W. Bush from the first presidential debate, “I know that, of course I know that.” It’s not so much a word as it is a feeling, an all encompassing body glove of the painful stench some people can emit. Like walking into the onion only section of someone’s lower intestine.
Originally I’d planned on writing this week a twelve page emo thesis on self loathing and the origins of prejudice (I had a rough week, let’s leave it at that). But last night I took a cab. I took a cab to go meet my girlfriend at a friend’s birthday party and got up close and personal with the Stanktastical.
It was one of those new cabs, too. One of those new ample leg room, hanky panky capable models. I’m a huge fan of cabs. Earlier in the night, my friend Nick and I got into a cab and ended up having a detailed conversation with the driver about politics, the vast right wing conspiracy and space ships. Apparently Newt is still running shit from the dark side of the moon.
The swirling wind of East Houston Street kept me in the dark about my impending fifteen minutes of funk long enough for us to speed away from the curb. Around then I got the full body odor treatment. I’m assuming that this guy had been eating only raw garlic for about five days, and then, some hours before starting his shift, decided it would be a good idea to grease up and wrestle some wild boars that had been rooting through four week old savannah carrion.
I felt like a hyper-allergic that had just swallowed a can of Planters Peanuts. My eyes started watering, I couldn’t breath, my throat closed up, I thought I smelled a hint of chocolate and wet dog, I opened my window and hung my head out into traffic. A beheading at the hand of an oncoming side view mirror would have been a blessing.
Personal freshness is a multi-billion dollar per year industry. Millions of dollars and man hours are spent every year in the search of a more effective and marketable deodorant. Even more money is spent on horrible advertising campaigns. I swear if I see another Degree spybreak commercial I’m going to go black trenchcoat matrix on someone’s ass. With all this money being thrown at the problem, why, dear God, why am I continually hammered by offensively smelling trogolodytes?
I’d also like to add here that this complaint is absolutely inclusive of bad breath as well. There is NO excuse for having bad breath at any time. Thanks to the wonderful invention of Listerine brand Breath Strips, you can have fresh breath at any time, in seconds.
You might say to me, “Well Dave, what about the commonly held belief that a person cannot smell their own breath, or that their own personal stank may not be stank to them, in fact it may even be enjoyable.”
In which I’d say back to you, “Well (Insert Name Here), you are a complete idiot.”
The wonderful thing about nasty smells is that they almost always pan-cultural in their respective recognizedness as being the funk nasty. What I think smells like ass, smells like ass in most parts of Europe (Insert French Joke Here), as well as most parts of the world. If you consider yourself un-stinky, please, help the rest of us who do think so by subscribing to our cultural guidelines on odor pantones.
As for not being able smell yourself I say this: If there is ever a doubt, then you probably have reason to doubt. Like if you just ate a hot dog, and can’t smell that dirty water sausage breath pelting me in the face every time you pronounce an “H” too loudly, just assume that you need a mint.
In breath cleansing and body odor elimination, assumption never makes an ass out of anyone, it actually might make you resemble one less, at least odoriferously.
In conclusion, I say to you, Mr. Stanktastical cab driver: While I’d like to thank you for sparing everyone an incredibly boring column this week with your inflammatory pit stink, I must implore you to scrub yourself down, stat. At the very least, committ a crime worthy of jail time so you can get a free delousing.