My Horse is Really Coconuts

Just when you think that peoples self awareness has advanced to a level of never having this kind of thing happening again and just when you rest your mind at ease that, in the absence of any Europeans or Asian immigrants, you will never have to deal with explaining the ins and outs of not only personal hygiene, but hygiene out of common courtesy. Oh yes, you were wrong. Oh so very wrong.

For as you sit, water color pastels in hand, you are greeted by none other than the smell of what can only be described as old people. The pungent waft that strays from those people who have both feet in the grave, both hands, and are holding onto dear life literally by their nostrils that seem to be the only part of their body that refuses to give up and make a subterranean home. The stench is coming from a far off place, but it’s concentrated.

You wonder if the person actually uses mothballs in the place of breath mints, toothpaste, mouthwash, and dentist visits. And just as you think that things can’t progress into anything more vile, the smell of partially digested hot wings wafts your way, and you decide enough is enough. You declare war! You will find the root of all things effluvial and squash it! You will send it back to its source smelling like sweet summer rain and puppy breath. There is no if, there is no shall, this, now, is your destiny.

You saunter towards the stink, game face on. You knock, casually, mouthing the words you will use to mount your attack, starting with gentle and rapidly mounting into a full verbal assault of rhetoric fit for a Jerry Springer Episode. If only the Lord above could bleep out the choice words that will shortly come out of your mouth to help you save some grace.

There’s a pause, a reply from behind the door, and your hands clench into fists as the door is open and you are greeted by a blast of mothballs, hot wings, and death. You falter, but only for a moment, and remember that in war there is no weakness only victory. You choke back the vomit the funk’s assault has caused. Once the initial shock of the first strike subsides, you’re greeted with the innocent face of a boy not much older than you. He smiles. You notice his dimples. You retreat for a second, but then, as wave two of the macabre stink washes over you, you realize that you must stand your ground. You must prevail. You must.

You reach in your pocket and shiver with excitement at the thought of the strategic and well thought out foray you are about to implement. You reach farther into your pocket and pull out your weapon that rests in your fingers wrapped ever so gently in a flashy silver gown.

“Take this. You need it, among other things.” You hand him the cinnamon flavored goodness resting in your hand. “I’m not sure what is up with you, how horrible your diet must be, or how much you drank last night, but I can smell all of this,” your arms flail in the air wildly, “ALL of this ALL the way over at my drawing boards and I have to say at 9am I don’t even want to smell my own perfume, let alone all of your random bodily functions and the extent of your lack of oral hygiene. If Aloise asks where I went, tell him I went to the drug store to get some air freshener, then breath on him and I’m sure he’ll completely understand.”

You walk away.

Victory is yours.