In my daily travels I get to enjoy many smells and odours, as most of you out there undoubtedly do. From bread baking to dog leavings, there is no escaping our olfactory nerves impulses. But there is one sensation I seriously can say very honestly I can do without. People without couth when it comes to cologne or perfume.
My first honest experience with an offensive cologne was my father’s wish to liberally splash Hi Karate all over his face. It was the seventies, and everything on the market pretty much stank to high heaven. But this, the original “Axe” had no equal, and still to this day ranks among the most Godforsaken smell known to man. The “Love Canal” couldn’t compete for sheer toxicity, I swear. Mix in a polyester leisure suit, and you had the whole damned world in the palm of your hands, twitching and gasping for air.
I honestly think that so much perfume and cologne was floating around out there during this time period that it has to be, at least in part, responsible for the hole in the ozone layer. We can’t blame air conditioners and fridges alone. Someplace, far above us, a Russian satellite is spinning its orbits smelling of F.D.S. It’s a mathematical certainty.
Well, I survived the seventies, and coursed through the eighties and nineties and into the new millennium with my nose so damaged from smoking, I rarely smelled anything other than my own yellowed fingers.
One day I decided to say goodbye to Nick O’Teen and proudly develop my five stomach’s muscles instead. The one side effect of my effort I didn’t anticipate was my sense of smell returning with a revenge on its mind.
On a beautiful spring morning, I smelled lilacs for the first time in an eternity. It wasn’t a pleasant little smell my nose ingested. Rather, it’s as if my snout just suddenly sucked up a few tanks filled with Chantilly perfume. The end result of that was a scent overdose. My brain could not process it, so it went into migraine mode. T’was not a pleasant time for any part of me involved. Picture it. A park full of people enjoying a warm spring day. Add one idiot (me) dry heaving into a trash can.
Class, sheer class.
Since that day, my nose and brain have learned to work in tandem with one another. Yet, at times, I still am easily overwhelmed with the “skank stank” some people inflict upon the helpless. It really is puzzling how some don’t get how dreadful they smell when they bathe in Chanel or Swiss Army. Quite honestly, I’d take the stench of a rotting corpse or cat spray over the scent of a man marinating in Stetson any day.
Clueless, simply clueless.
Some of the worst offenders of this eye-watering-oxygen impeding hell on earth are those that not only use body spray as a force field after a shower, but does so with those dollar store imitation perfumes. With God as my witness, someday, I will take a Bic lighter and burn off that layer of nauseating atmosphere they’re forcing onto each of their victims. If dementia had an odour, that would be it.
Lord in heaven, is that one nasty-assed way to torment a crowded bus full of people trying to get home after a hard day at the office.
But there is one near criminal stench that almost rises above all others. Miserable old widows that lacquer themselves in rose scented toilet water. I want to just scream into her one working ear “Lady, the water smelled better in the toilet. Please stop the embalming, we’re not interested in watching a walking artefact try to keep itself from desiccation with that obnoxious perfume”.
But the biggest and baddest…douchebag men and women. You know the types. Him…hair all frosted and boy banded up. Shell necklace. Underwear showing off his jeans which hang halfway down his ass, Honda Civic all riced up with no place to go. And a can full of Axe liberally applied to every pore on his body.
Her…too big for the over tight clothes she’s wearing. Hip huggers to show off her muffin top, tank top so small it doesn’t cover said muffin top. She’s likely sporting polyester hair extensions, way too much makeup, a push me up bra to show off her tittles and decorative tramp stamps on her neck and lower back. Her goal is to be noticed.
That camel toe wasn’t attention-getting enough, so she’s doused herself in Jennifer Lopez’s “Glow”. Smells like furniture polish, and she’s proudly sporting the whole bottle. You can see her in the form of toxic mist before you actually see her. You can bet she’s his date for tonight.
And they wonder what’s gone wrong with the world. These are today’s youth. They hold the key to our future.
Do the words “help me” uttered in amazement and fear resound?
As the last vestiges of your semiconscious self teem with thoughts of how great an oxygen mask would be right about now, they both screech off into the night in that ridiculous looking vehicle.
I think common sense is something these people lack in their day-to-day lives. How I grow want of it. Speaking of what I want…I want to give each of the offenders a big bear swat upside the back of their heads in hopes that they will snap out of this stench-soaked stupor they are in.
The smell of soap and water…its a good thing!