THE GREAT GADFLY:

Hell's Smells



You better believe I like to smell good.

In my kitchen, I have a pump bottle of emerald green Softsoap apple-cinnamon antibacterial hand soap, and it smells divine. Next to it, I keep my favorite dishwashing detergent, a tall bottle of orange Ajax goo (again, antibacterial - because one really never knows about the germs, does one) - and it smells just lovely.

In the bathroom, I keep a variety of fragrant sprays and mists, including Melon Fresh spray by Glade and an aerosol-free citrus scent spritz by Renuzit. Both smell glorious. I proudly spray my bathtub after every use with a pine fresh solution that keeps my shower smelling like a forest wonderland. I want to yodel just thinking about it.

And incense - did somebody say incense? Oh, I've got incense. I just ran out of my favorite, which smells just like freshly lit clove cigarettes, but I have a wide assortment of stinksticks with names like "fresh rain", "baby powder", "mountain mist" and even a few that recreate the fragrance of LIME. I resist nag champa, because even on even the most olfactorily needy days, the nag is just a bit too much for me to handle.

Nothing says "happy home" like a scented blue tablet in the toilet tank, with a hint of lavender sachet.

Maybe I'm a stinkophobe. Maybe I'm a fragrance fetishist. Maybe. Or maybe not.

My neighbors, not satisfied with wafting dungloads of bad rap metal, Van Hagar and bloopy Nintendo noises into my modest abode, have recently taken to pumping ungodly amounts of cheap perfume throughout the building in what I can only suppose is some kind of vulgar attempt to mark their territory. Just when I think I'm a hopeless scent hag, with all my fragrant candles and poopie cover-up sprays, up flows a heavy green cloud of Prince Matchabelli hell, instantly inflaming my sinuses and taunting my tear ducts, forcing me to audibly gasp and hack like some kind of pool hall floozie on a Saturday night.

Honestly, I own better-smelling bug spray than the vile Jean Nate napalm these people seem to be stockpiling. Nor, really. I have a can of floral-fresh scented insect spray under my kitchen sink. After all, I think it's only decent and respectful to send a cockroach to its final reward with at least a blast of aromatherapeutic toxins. If only my neighbors were so merciful. They might was well be fumigating the building with mustard gas, so offensive is their vile stench.

And, oh, I know what you're thinking. "They're probably trying to mask YOUR stank ass, with your clove incense and your melon stink bug sprays. Maybe YOU are the one who dealt it!"

And, you buttcakes, I have indeed considered this possibility. I have stepped outside of my stripey loveshack and sniffed the common air. To the best of my ability, I have made sure I am not a residential eco-terrorist. I care, goddammit. I care so much that I get nosebleeds. Yeah.

All I know is, there's a fine line between serenity and stench, and to some people, that line is thin indeed. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go stuff my nostrils with Bounce fabric softening dryer sheets and try my best to salvage what's left of this reeking dance hall fruit basket of a day.


2003-10-14 - Last Haiku
2003-10-09 - Don't Cry Out Loud
2003-10-09 - Sit Down, You're Making Me Nervous
2003-10-08 - I'm Sure Miss Thing, I'm Sure
2003-10-07 - Carbonated Water, Caramel Color, Aspartame

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