Personal HygieneThere comes a point at which your hygiene becomes less your problem and more everyone else's:
My old school nurse never seemed to wash - instead she wrapped herself in crepe bandages from the first aid kits. The smell was beyond pungent. If you got ill at school, it was better to suffer than try and explain symptoms whilst only breathing out.
When she was eventually 'let go',they had to strip the wallpaper in her office to get rid of the lingering odour.
How scuzzy have you got? Or, failing that, how bad have people you know got?
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chthonic, Thu 22 Mar 2007, 12:40)
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Not all fat people are stinky. But I found one that was...For instance, Mrs God, who's deliciously curvaceous, but doesn't smell at all. Except of perfume.
Picture the scene. Myself and Mrs God are shopping. We're in a hurry, so I suggest popping to a local shop that I know. And so we do. We get everything we need, and then head for the tills. Mrs. God has a very acute sense of smell (She can tell if I've had cheese and onion crisps for lunch. No, really!) but on this occasion it seems to fail her briefly. We select a till, and queue. As we queue, her gorgeous nose starts to wrinkle. She knows by now that asking me if I can smell anything is wasted effort, so she doesn't.
We arrive at the front of the queue, to be greeted by the woman on the till. At this point, I become aware of an... odour. OK, this woman looks like she's been made by welding two crashed swamp donkeys together, but hey - one mustn't judge. I unload the shopping, trying to ignore the heaving noises coming from Mrs God. And failing... Eventually she moves the trolley, grabs hold of me and drags me bodily to the other end of the till. "Can you... err..." I feebly stutter. "That's why *you're* standing there!" she hisses, malevolently.
Well, blessed if I know what she was going through, but me with my Beta 2 sense of smell, I thought I was going to die. It smells as if they saved the best bits of the swamp donkeys to make the till lady with, then rubbed the other bits with rancid tramp pants, then left it in a box in the sun for a week.
Eventually we make good our escape. I have to pay for the shopping as Mrs God is outside the shop with the trolley, trying to hold onto her lunch. As I flee the area... she turns to greet the next customer, and I get another waft of it.
I catch up with Mrs. God. She fixes me in the twin beams of her heart-meltingly gorgeous blue eyes, and says the words I've been waiting to hear: "We are never going back in that shop. Ever."
Did I mention that this was my local shop, one that I'd used for years? Well, gentle reader, I did the only thing that a man could do in this position. I... moved.
(, Sat 24 Mar 2007, 10:02, Reply)
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