This guy holds a special place in my heart. Let's go down the list. This boy:
- Is a musician. (Check)
- Is an artist. (Check)
- Lives somewhere inconvenient, i.e. at least a 20 minute cab ride away from my house. (Check)
- Only drinks PBR. (Check)
- Has very poor personal hygiene. (Oh God, CHECK!!)
It's this last point that puts him on this week's list as a "times are tough" story.
I ran into an old friend, let's call him
General Smelly, when I was out at a dive bar last winter. I hadn't seen him in a few years and we instantly hit it off and I was feelin' it. Mostly, I was happy to have a viable prospect who happened to be an old buddy. Yay for me. Shannon was pretty stunned that I would take an interest in him, but what could I say? Times had been tough!
Now, General Smelly is an intense little guy. At 5'5, he has a skeletal, bony frame and sharp cheekbones that would probably cut you if you approached him from the wrong angle. His oily hair is matted to his head and he has a wiry, unkempt beard that Rip Van Wrinkle would covet.
He is the kind of guy that carries around old, dog-eared bibles from the '40s or Russian-English dictionaries in a weathered, leather satchel.
Basically, he looks like a homeless Civil War Veteran. He should be warming his hands over an oil barrel on fire under a highway somewhere chomping on a can of baked beans.
When he suggested that he come back to my place for a few more drinks, I figure I'd go with it. I was happy to break my dry spell.
Well, we were sitting on my couch and I literally had to hold my breath because his stench was so bad. I was in amazement.
Did he stuff dead cats in his armpits? Was there tuna in his tube socks? How could a human smell so unbearably funky?"You know, you've had a long day today. Why don't you go unwind and take a shower?" That was my attempt at giving him an out. And he declined, politely.
I insisted, "No, really. You'll feel so much better. Just take one! It's not a big deal." Still, he wouldn't budge on the issue and got up to grab another beer.
I seriously contemplated leaving a trail of PBRs to the shower then pushing him in and turning on the water. What the fuck? I wanted to break my dry spell, but at what cost to my olfactory senses? As I leaned it for another kiss, I thought,
"Wow, times must be really tough that this bumfighter is actually able to successfully steal some smooches right now."After he left, I felt so dirty. Even the couch cushions he sat on smelled like his B.O. I still shudder to think about it. All I can say is that there wasn't a loofah in the world strong enough to exfoliate either his stench or the shame that I felt.
Dear Sir,
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