Um, Does Anybody Got a Mint?
I know it. I’ve been told it too many times for it not to be true.
Isn’t it funny the way no one will tell you if your real stinky, but if you’re e-stinky they just can’t stop going on and on? It must be liberating, telling people how e-stinky they are, saying: “I hate to break it to you, bud, but your ‘E’ – peeeyew, does it stink. You smell like fish giblets wrapped in a shit taco, like a corpse’s asshole–Do you know that? Man o’ man does your E stink! Jesus is going to have to come up with a whole new brand salvation to get your stinky E ass into heaven!”
That’s the great thing about the internet, the way it liberates us from all those things, like civility, compassion, reasoned debate. Adulthood.
Because it’s kinda like a schoolyard, isn’t it? Name-calling. Mocking and jeering and sneering. Fook-you! No fook-you, motherfooker!
And if you happen to be e-stinky – lookout!
As far as I can tell I’ve been e-stinky my whole life. I’m a veteran of a thousand flame wars. I’ve slain trolls (who are attracted to e-stink the way a rutting bull moose is attracted to female urine), scaled bastions of unbridled, wanton stubborn stupidity. I have seen grown men go Full Retard over the definition of ‘illness.’
And I’ve been beaten down, hurt, mystified. I’ve turned to friends and asked, “Why does my E stink?”
“You come off as a pompous ass.”
“What if I made my ass more humble… Would it stink less then?”
“I don’t know what to say. It’s that whole philosophy thing, maybe. All that shit about facts and reasons and fallacies and cognitive shortcomings…”
“That’s what makes me stinky?”
“Well… There’s your personality.”
“No fook-you, motherfooker!”
So that was that. I was e-stinky. I doomed to smell the smell that dare not waft its name. It was part of who I am. Part of my essence…
What was I to do? Withdraw from the e-world entirely, live in self-imposed e-exile, e-embittered?
Or should I e-embrace my e-brand. Stand e-tall, e-proud, and e-declare, “I e-stink, Goddammit… How do ya like me so far!”
“No, fook-you, motherfooker!”
Sometimes I would become self-conscious, I admit. It’s a hard thing, forcing yourself to be proud. I would do things like shove breath-mints and air-fresheners up my e-ass, just to see if that would work. I once even shaved my armpits. But to no avail. Take my advice: Never, ever, try soaking your balls in Old Spice. Those guys who write those commercials are a bunch of lying motherfookers!
Other times I exulted in my e-stink. I would breath deep, and cry out with savage abandon. The heavens would resound, and the beasts would slink, eyes watering, into their lairs. Olfactory bulbs shrivelled for the mere rumour of my approach. My smell was my roar!
But it got to be too much, the schoolyard, the name-calling, the mocking, the jeering and the sneering. Even my heart seemed to e-stink after awhile.
So I retired from the e-world, travelled the lonely ways of the e-stinky man, pensive, reflective, searching for someone wise who could tell me what to do. And so I found myself in Tibet, searching for a famed Tibetan Llama renowned for his wisdom regarding all things stinky and E.
I climbed mountain scarps. The wind whipped tails of white from the surrounding peaks. When I arrived at the monastery, I knocked on the great, bronze-gilded, door. It opened of it’s own volition. I would have been awed, had I not been convinced it simply retreated from my odour.
I stepped into the gloom following a little dust-devil of snow. I blinked, my eyes adjusting. The heavens howled beyond the timbered dark. Even the Gods, it seemed, were, like, totally grossed out.
And there she sat, regaled in woolen vestments chased in gold.
I said, “You’re a chick!”
She shrugged. “Yeah, well…”
I swallowed. “Do you know why I’ve come?”
“Oh, my dear child,” she said. “You are such a darling foo–oof!” Her face crumpled into waxen origami. “Fuck me! Is that you?”
“Please! Guru-chick! You must help me!”
She held her breath as if bottling a toke. “You smell like shit, but, hey…”
“Thank you!” I cried, falling to my knees.
She regarded me, her look stern, as ruthless as a Republican Primary. “I like the lay of your sausage, kid, so I’m afraid I’m going to have to be cruel.”
“Yes! Yes! Please be cruuuel!”
“Well,” she said, “there’s two things. First, you gotta remember it’s just the fucking internet. Christ! I mean, puh-leeease! People say all kinds of crap they wouldn’t dare say in real life. They, like, even got names for it and shit. Syndromes and what-not.”
I knew this already. I caught my breath in sudden worry. “And? And?”
She paused and crouched forward, made like a gagging cat. She leaned back gasping, caught a thread of spittle on her thumb. I heard her mutter something wise and arcane, but all I could make out was “demon dick” and “like anal sex with decomposing chimpanzees…”
Words that would haunt the subconscious galleries of my soul for, like, forever-ever-ever-ver…
“So you reek. It’s all relative, kid. Stick to arguing with those even e-stinkier than you.”
With regal grace, I slowly lowered my forehead to the floor, thinking, What kind of loser would just leave a tack laying on the floor like that? Fucking owww…
“Thank you, oh most wise Guru-chick–thank you!”
She nodded. “Oh, yeah… Have you ever tried washing your nads in Old Spice? Cause that’s what you smell like–” She paused to simultaneously burp and cough.
“Horseshit, kid. Horse. Shit.”