Tuesday, December 26, 2006

I spent the bulk of yesterday afternoon disgusted, because the guy one cube over kept ripping ass, silently of course. I never heard him, but I know it was him. Had to be. It was bad. Real bad. So bad, in fact, that I had to leave work early to get away from it.

Due to the nice weather last night, I left my car at home and walked the 6 blocks to my second job. It allowed me a few moments to be outside, away from stank-ass cubemates, which was a breath of fresh air.

Har har. Get it?

But when I parked my first car, I had to double check to make sure my coworker wasn't hiding out in the back seat; the car had the same stink to it.

I didn't think much of it at first because some people just have an odd smell to them, which is easily transferred over to their cars. I didn't get a good whiff of the person that pulled up in the car--like I normally do--but it's a truth that some people smell differently than others, though most of the time it's not bad or good, it just is. I figured the owner of the car I was in, well, smelled.

But then the 2nd car reeked.

And the 3rd was, how do you say, 'odorous'.


An optimistic person might say that it was fragrant, or that it had an odd aroma. But that person isn't me--this pessimist thought it smelled like shit. I even had to drive with the windows down, head slightly cocked out the window. Had my tongue been out at the same time, the crackhead I passed on my way into the ramp would've had a story to tell about the Man-dog driving a Lexus. But he was a crackhead and they tend to live in another realm altogether. Who would believe the story-telling druggy?

So it was obvious the smell wasn't coming from the coworker, or the customers with less than optimal hygiene and car mainenance skills; it was coming from me. But how? From where? I took a shower in the morning and the last time I checked my pants weren't full of shit. I mean, I'm often figuratively full of shit, but not literally. I haven't been literally full of shit since I was in diapers, and that was weeks ago.

At one point I thought that I might be smelling my labret piercing hole. I removed the barbell the night before because it was bothering me and never put it back in. Anybody that's ever had a piercing knows they can smell funny, and not ha-ha funny, either. I swished a little water around inside by bottom lip and rubbed a little of the wet stuff on the outside, hoping that this would clear things up.

But the next car I took up--a car that spoke volumes about the owner's penis size--smelled, too. And if there's one thing I've learned since I started working at a hip and expensive restaurant it's this; when you have money, your shit doesn't stink. That would explain why grandpa and grandma's house always, always smelled like cheese.

Poor grandpa, in more ways than one.

Anyhow, it wasn't until Rachel said something about stepping in shit that it clicked; that I decided to check my own shoe.

I'm not sure where it came from, or where I picked it up, but there, lodged between the large treads of my hiking shoe, was a nice sized fecal hitchhiker. I removed the smelly freeloader with a rolled up piece of cardboard and happily accepted my "ShitFoot" monikor for the rest of the night.

But what does this say about me? I started telling this story to the Girlfriend last night, and I got exactly one sentence into it before she screamed "You stepped in something! Right?". She solved my stinky mystery in seconds, a mystery that took me hours to figure out.

I may be slow, but at least my shoe is clean.

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