There’s this smelly old dude who works at a place I go to lunch every day. He has horrible B.O. Legendary B.O. It’s the kind of B.O. that will quite literally make you gag and hold your breath until you’re not around him. B.O. that follows him around and borders on being its own entity. We’re talking this smell should have its own social security number type B.O.
As bad as that is on its own, that’s not the worst of it.
I’m not really sure how to explain this properly, but this dirty old man smells exactly the way that Tostitos Southwestern ranch dip tastes. Does that make any sense? In other words, this guy’s B.O. has a flavor.
The worst part? That’s my favorite dip. So now, every time I eat it, I’ll be forced to think of some smelly old guy.
Unless this guy decides to walk through a car wash, I can’t enjoy it like I used to. How can I? Whatever pleasure center that dip triggered in my brain has been replaced by the thought of some dirty old guy who can’t muster up the energy to loofa in the morning. Every time I pick up a tortilla chip and go for a dip of Southwestern ranch, I’ll imagine that tiny chip having the head of that guy. It’s one of the weirdest stimuli-responses in the history of stimuli-responses.
How can he walk around like this, oblivious to his B.O.? A better question might be: how can everyone he encounters let him? It’s ridiculous that society frowns on making life uncomfortable for those with B.O. Think about this: if you were in a room with fifteen people, and one of them smelled like shit, the odds are that no one is going to tell that one guy he stinks. Everyone will walk around making faces like Mr. Bean until the guy leaves. Why should I have to make concessions to save this guy’s feelings? I’m the one making an effort by showering daily. Believe me, I’d love to just roll out of bed and show up to work smelling like Oscar the Grouch’s shit. But I don’t.
I just want to grab this guy, shake him and say, “Take a shower, you’re ruining my favorite dip!” If anybody calls the cops, I’ll have them take a whiff and I think they’ll side with me. Afterwards I’ll let them sample the dip to hammer my point home.
One question that comes to mind: of all the people who A) smell this guy daily and B) have tasted Southwestern ranch dip – are they picking up on this too? Or am I alone? Maybe it’s just me, and for some perverse, sickening reason, I’m projecting my love of this dip onto this smelly old man. Even if that’s not the case, I can’t bring it up to anyone. What if somebody puts my dip out at a party? It’s not like I can say, “Oh, no thanks, that reminds me of this old dude who works near my building. No, I don’t feel like elaborating any further.”
Maybe this guy’s onto something. After all, body odor isn’t inherently bad – everybody has their own distinctive smell. It’s only when we let it run wild that it gets noticed. At least this guy’s festering stink smells like a good-tasting food. For the hopelessly pungent, flavored B.O. could become the new Axe Body Spray. There’s definitely a market for this. If you’re going to smell like shit, you might as well smell like vanilla-scented shit. I can see it now: former stink-bombs leaving their house confidently, as the scent of lemon B.O. wafts from their soppy pits. Well-dressed businessmen linger around homeless guys they’d usually ignore, sniffing the air and saying, “Mulberry?”
If you’re an executive at Yankee Candle or Old Spice reading this: you’re welcome.