I figured it was about time to really let you know my feelings about your bowels… There is definitely something wrong with them. Today I walked into the men’s restroom with no intention other than spraying down the urinal with golden love, but the smell emanating from your stall brought tears to my eyes. Tears, man – it was that bad. Just what the hell are you eating for breakfast? Besides onions and cheese, that is. Those were fairly obvious. Did I also detect a hint of garlic? I can’t be sure, because the stall next to you was also being used, and I’d never blame an innocent man for another person’s fumes.
Now, before you make your reply, I want you to know that I am fairly well-versed in this subject. I have pondered deeply on my ceramic chair of thought for hours on end about related issues (in between finishing three issues of Popular Science or Motor Trend, that is). I know, for instance, that my best efforts on the throne can cause immediate evacuation of my house and the surrounding area, yet never really bother me. I think everybody develops a natural resistance to the smell of their own shit; for guys this can even sometimes be a special attachment or, dare I say, fondness (damn, it feels like betraying Guild rules writing these words). Indeed, I feel that “separation anxiety” is a commonly understood yet unspoken factor in the peculiarly male-centric habit of bathroom reading.
But, my friend, even factoring in the effects of people always thinking that their own shit don’t stink (and by extension, thinking that everyone else’s smells more), your performance today blew the top off the stankometer. Moldy, rotting, pungently torturous, what-the-fuck-crawled-up-and-died, posilutely THE BOMB stanky. Hiroshima and Nagasaki combined had nothing on the steamy pile you bequeathed to the company plumbing. And it wan’t just me who thought so – one of the cleaning ladies walked in to scrub the urinals donning elbow-length rubber gloves and a white surgical mask, took 2.5 steps into the room, and upon encountering your sarin death fumes, abruptly performed an about-face and exited.
When I left the john, she was standing outside trying to explain to her boss at the cleaning cart why it was a good idea to take out the trash today before cleaning the restrooms, without actually referring to your anal atomizing. She looked to me for support as I passed by, and all I could say is, “oof,” while trying to clear my nostrils.
Dude, your tapeworm collection is rotting or something.

5 thoughts on “Stench

  1. This post has “Big Hominid” written all over it. It must have been quite a loaf for you to find it noteworthy. I mean, you didn’t even mention to me that there were floating pieces of shit in the “ass washing basin” (they didn’t have TP) after we used that toilet in rural Thailand, on the way to Laos. Now that was some fucked up repugnant shit!

  2. Well, I did have Kevin in mind when I was writing it. It’s half tribute and half prayer to the porcelain goddess to help him find a new home today. I guess we shall see if “brown power” lives up to its reputation.

  3. The shit-kami were in good form, leaping across the ocean, ducking under Korean border sentries and guiding my fortune, blasting the demons of pessimism with Ultimate Brown Power. I now have a temporary place of residence at my #3 Adjumma’s house (she’s the wife of one of my mother’s four cousins). So thank you for your asshole’s warm and steaming prayer.
    Yes, indeed– this was a most worthy post. Most worthy. I just about shat in accidental tribute to your literary (and rectal) prowess.
    But I’ve changed my mind about hanging out with you guys. If staying overnight at Justin’s place means putting up with glowing, ki-infused megashit (I can see the animé dung monster in my head), I think I’d rather tuck myself into a cramped little kapsuro. Heh.
    I read the post about rap, and just thought of a name for a Japanese rap group: ANAL KIAI.

  4. Good to hear you found a temporary pad, Kev. The power of poop never ceases to amaze.
    Anal Kiai. Now that’s fucking rad. I might have to cut a track with my pal Taro and name it thus.
    Forlorn and forsaken, he walked the earth with nothing but his lucky marmot’s foot and a pocketful of anal kiai.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.