International Flavor

I received a rude awakening this morning when Cologne-Soaked H hurled himself out of the bedroom at 6:00. There I was, reclined, wrapped in an afghan, snatching a few clandestine ZZZs in the La-Z-Boy, oblivious to the fate that would imminently befall me. And then it was upon me, the cloud of stench that would cling throughout the day. Some kind of Stetson or Old Spice or Chaps or any other cloyingly annoying fragrance with which men slosh themselves. And for the record, such products, unlike fine wine, do not become better with age.

Cologne-Soaked H declared that he was going to a meeting today. What? He just went to Indiana on a wing and a credit card Monday! Now this. Since when do factory-toiling men soak themselves with smelly-good (that's Arrested Development H's term for cologne) to sit next to each other in a safety meeting all day? I cry shenanigans!

The nicest thought to enter my head concerning the aroma of Cologne-Soaked H was: he smells like a French wh*re. My apologies to the French. And wh*res. Where did that expression come from, anyway? What's the story behind the myth of the French wh*re? We've heard that the French are stinky. Are French wh*res ripe because they're French? Or because they're wh*res? Wouldn't you think that wh*res would try to smell good, to attract more business? Or do the men who partake of the wh*res not really consider their smell to be a boon or a liability? And while we're on the subject of wh*res, remember that time Politically Incorrect H informed us that all wh*res look alike, with straight black hair parted in the middle? That man has some issues.

In any case, I certainly hope the dudes who sat next to Cologne-Soaked H all day were olfactorily challenged. And that they had a case of tomato juice waiting at home for the detox bath to remove all traces of C-S H from their skin.

I will now conclude tonight's post, and await the phone call from credit card fraud about the use of my card in Jefferson City today, courtesy of Traveling Oldster H.