You Stink!

For the love of God and all that is holy, stop wearing Patchouli oil. You stink to high heaven.

Um….no. Just no.

I can’t tolerate the stench. Especially when I’m trying to work. Everyone is too polite to say anything, but I want you to know…it’s horrible.

Perhaps you’re trying to cover up the fact that you haven’t bathed in weeks. I really don’t know. Listen, if you have bad personal hygiene or if you’re just a dirty bugger, it’s your own concern. BO = bugger off. I have no idea what could possibly possess anyone to splash Beelzebub’s urine onto their body. I don’t care how much you think you like Patchouli oil. It barks like a diarrhea inflicted hell hound. You obviously can’t smell yourself.

Take a shower and scrub that shit off your body with a wire brush. Preferebly with industrial soap. You effin’ reek like a skunk’s armpit that’s been kept deep in a cave and hidden from the light. I don’t want a lingering, moldy dank-stank to hook me by the nostrils like Pepe Le Pew’s ghost. It causes internal cringing and I feel like I’m bleeding internally.

I mean, I’m sure it works great as a Jurassic fart insect repellent, but it seriously makes me want to projectile vomit like Linda Blair right into your face…and that’s pretty bad. Seriously, I can’t wait until you go away. I hate it. I don’t know why it hasn’t been banned.

Our ancestors from the seventeenth – nineteenth century used to put Patchouli oil on their dead, which is where it belongs. On a decaying, maggot infested, corspe. I retch at the smell. So if you aren’t dead, please don’t wear it around me unless you enjoy watching me get nausiated and empty my stomach onto your crunchy vegetables and soy infused meat alternatives.

As a matter of fact, do us all a favour and soak your head in rose water for a few decades. Maybe it will float a few molecules of grey matter to the surface and you’ll finally realize how foul smelling you are, making everyone want to blow chunks.

Speaking of personal hygiene, a few weeks ago I bought a box of baby wipes at work.
One of my co-workers wondered why I needed them.

“Are they for a baby?” she asked.
I shook my head. “No, they’re for me.”
“For you?” she scoffed. She looked at me like I’d lost my mind.
My eyebrows lowered. “Don’t you use wipes?”
“No, I just use toilet paper,” she replied.
I rolled my eyes. “Look, think about it. If your kitty plops shit all over the floor, do you just use a paper towel and wipe it, or do you vigorously Bee Mop the floor with scalding, sudsy water?”

She just laughed. Seriously though, everyone should know the answer. If you don’t use wipes you aren’t clean. Scrub your anal pore, folks. Nobody wants your shitty, smelly skid marks or crusty underwear.

Your ass stinks like rotten cabbage.

If you don’t stop stinking, you know the drill.

You stink when near, you stink when far. Ram a carrot up your star.

This has been a public service announcement courtesy of the Grocery Whisperer.