Stink Bomb

I love New York City. I do. It is a dirty, dirty whore, true, but I love it.

So it is 97 degrees (feels like 604) and the city is really getting its stink on. All the dirt, food, oil, milk, gum, poo, and--let's face it people--dead skin cells are good and grimed into the streets and sidewalks by now. All those ingredients can do now is sit and bake. The end result creates a compelling odor of hot, gassy garbage. And, since you are probably sweating like a flushed hog, the smell of the city is sticking to you like cheez whiz. You have to love the dirty whore, friends. She' got a hot funk, but she parties all night, throws a lamp at your head, and gives you 8 stitches in the ass. Fun girl.

Am I jacking metaphors?

What got me thinking of stank and dirty whores was actually the train ride into the city this morning. A quality ride, "R" the whole way, had a seat, etc. But it was fine fun to sample the assortment of aromas that entered the car every time the doors opened at each station. ("Sampling" is precisely what you are doing, by the way, since when you smell something, you are tasting it, too--did you know that? Now you do, and you'll think of it everytime you use the public restroom. Mmm, tacos.) We had a nice assortment of skin...salty skin, tangy skin, hot sausage skin. There were a few onions on board; these gentleman like to hold the bar right above your head and they are usually sleeveless with a nice brush of pit hair waving in the breeze.

But you know, I can take a certain level of spicy (not every level, mind you, but A level). What really rankles my tarts are the sweaty, dirty whores with the mismatched perfume who, in an attempt to improve an odor situation (good intentions, I get it), instead manage to inflict an ungodly olfactory horror on the world. In case you didn't know it, the oils in your skin react with the chemicals in perfume. In the world of perfume, one size does not fit all. Ladies should definitely have learned this by the time they are out of high school.

Alas, the dirty whores either don't know, don't care, or are in denial. Today's stinkbomb had apparently taken a nice perfume soak before getting dressed and spraying another layer on top. The skin and the scent did not mix well and, when fermented with flop sweat, the odor turned into a living thing. It smelled like...hmm, now I want to get this right. I should honor this monumental funk with the proper description. It was. It was. Mm.

It was like a dead gorilla wearing soiled diapers locked in a gas chamber set a 104 for one week. Oh and someone has just sprayed it all down with Febreeze.

Now, some of you are thinking, Hot damn, where can I buy me some of that? And others are crying for the dead, diapered gorilla in the gas chamber (I know, it is a brutal world, folks, but stay on topic)...But all I really want to know is this: Can she not smell that?

Maybe not. Maybe she's married to an spicy onion. That would kill her sense of smell...and dreams, too, I guess. Maybe the perfume hides a terrible secret? A polyp? Goiter? Siamese twin tucked under the arm? She did have a big bag.