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8/24/04

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Enough With the Fucking Scented Stuff Already!

A guest Probeatorial by
Dwight Sessums




What is it with chicks and smelly crap? As if the constant barrage of fruity smells in my office from the Bath and Body Works-addicted secretaries wasn't enough, now I have to come home to a house that reeks like someone set Carmen Miranda's hat on fire?

Before I was married, the house smelled the way a man's house is supposed to smell -- manly. Motor oil, catsup and stale cigarette smoke were the only noticeable scents. Now the cloying waxy odor of "Vanilla Dream" mixed with "Pumpkin Spice" and "Jasmine Nights" makes me want to drive to Massachusetts and throttle the entire product development team at Yankee Candle. I'd set fire to the whole goddamned factory if it wouldn't make the problem worse.

And what the fuck is it with the scented dish soap?! Come-fucking-on, people. Scent is connected to taste, right? So when I wash my coffee mug out in the break room at work and my only choice of dish soap is Palmolive "Apple-Blossom Flatus" or, God help me, "Springtime Ejaculation," the morning cup of joe tastes like Johnny Appleseed took a dump in my mug. Soap, if it has any smell at all, should smell like fucking SOAP! The bogus lemon shit was bad enough. Now you can't buy anything that doesn't stink like a cheap whore in a produce store.

Here's my theory: Women can't help themselves when it comes to scented stuff. Whatever part of a broad's genetic code makes them buy stuff that smells "nice" is the same set of genes that makes them scatter doilies, cozies and those little useless throw pillows over every available surface. I can't even sit down at the kitchen table to read the evening paper anymore without first moving four crocheted placemats, a hand-crafted pottery knickknack that, as far as I can tell, is supposed to be a pregnant cow shitting out a little bouquet of flowers (or as my wife calls it, the salt and pepper/napkin holder set) and several glass jars full of burning wax turds that permanently sear the stink of gingerbread, blueberry cobbler and a fucking rose garden into my nose. Yeah honey, it's pretty, all right. Pretty goddamned awful.

Men, it's time to fight back. First thing tonight, I'm eating a sack of 20 White Castle burgers and a can of refried beans, and washing the whole mess down with a six-pack of Coors. We gotta strike a blow for freedom from nasal terrorism before we wake up one day and find our homes irreparably cloaked in the dirty-hippy stench of Patchouli Persimmon Passion.



(Transcribed by Allen Lindsey)





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