The Smelly Guy

I’m sitting in a meeting last week. In walks the most foul of odors. It’s a combination of foot cheese are ass nebula. For those of you familiar with my Ass Nebula blog from days gone by, this really is a completely different experience. We are all sitting in the meeting, and I can’t help but wonder if the Smelly Guy knows that he smells like decaying mushrooms in a dried up onion field or not.

It got me to thinking, “Self? Do you know when you smell? Is the Smelly Guy just oblivious to his own odoriferous emanation?”

Therein lies the problem. If the Smelly Guy smells in a forest and there is no one there to smell, does he smell? Perhaps I am getting too philosophical about the Smelly Guy. After all, he did wreak of decomposing foot jam mixed with onions and blue cheese. I hope I am painting a good picture for your nasal receptors.

I remembered back to times when I smelled myself. Well, not times that I smelled myself but times that I, myself, smelled. Although one can easily argue that I must smell myself in order to smell myself. Rather interesting this combination of English words into a confounding experience isn’t it? I smell myself. Does that mean that I smell myself or that I, myself, smell?

Crap! Now, I’m just stuck on this tangent of smelling myself like the toe jam on the Smelly Guys’ feet. This is the real issue at hand: The Smelly Guy. To me, the combination of foot fungus, blue cheese, and onions is rather foul. Yet, to some (perhaps the French), this is the most exquisite soup du jour. Does someone know when they smell bad? Clearly, this guy didn’t realize the atrophy taking place in his sandals. Or maybe he just chose to ignore it?

I started pondering the times I knew I smelled bad. Typically, this involved my feet or my nether region and not taking a shower for about 3-4 days. Did Smelly Guy not take a shower for a week? Is that what was going on? Or was he really oblivious to the whole experience of the meeting. Was it an experience much like someone who smokes all the time and has clothes that smell like smoke. They don’t realize that they smell like stale peanut butter!

Alas, I realize that I just must be at peace with the smells of the world. There is nothing bad or wrong with the smells that emanate from an individual’s shoes, nether regions, and orifices. The choice is mine alone to wallow in the mire of despair regarding another’s stench or to rise above the fog of judging and assessing. After all, my dogs lick their own butts!

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  1. 1 Rehashed: The Week in Odor « Jared’s Bloggin’

    […] The second silo was the most devious of them all; not because of the particular blend of decadent colon matter. No! Indeed, it was the timing of the second attack… what I have called the sneak attack. Just moments after the wonderful West Coast Swing Dance instructor called on the men to rotate to the next partner, the son of a bitch launched the Pearl Harbor of farts (which stunk up the studio more than Ben Affleck in the movie). I arrived at precisely the same time as the heat from his retched loin burger. YES! That is correct, me and the fart got to the girl’s space at the same time. Not only did I have to suffer the humiliation of being thought of as “the fart guy”, but I had to dance around in this dude’s ass nebula while the girl was thinking I’m “the fart guy”. […]

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