Personal Hygiene Can Get A Bit Too Personal

Have you ever been stuck in a grocery store line with a person behind you who has less-than-admiral hygiene (not to be confused with Admiral Hygiene, Defender of the Hygh Seas, and victor at the Battle of No Thyme Atoll)? Recently, I was pinned in a Wal-Mart checkout between a fat woman wearing jogging pants that said "HEY" across the buttocks (it actually said "HOCKEY", but her butt cheeks had somehow made some of the letters disappear) and a middle-aged man who had carried around his own fog. This man stunk to hygh heaven--and he didn't seem to notice how offensive his reak was wreaking upon the discount store patrons!

Now, I've never been a person that spends a lot of time loitering around in the personal hygiene aisles of my local drugstore, but I will take a moment or two to glisten over the glycerin soaps, gander at the dander products, scrutinize the facial scrubs, and because of my go-green attitude (go-green is the personalized licence plate on my Hummer) I will naturally look over those delicious cakes of natural soap. Admittedly, the bars I like to spend time with offer cheap drinks and pretty dancers instead of ivory-snowish looking soap bars, however I will not hasten to spend a few minutes every morning lathering up with a louffa and my Arsenio Hall cocoa butter soap-on-a-rope.

But what do you say to a man who has the power to knock you senseless with one ill-winded draft (Ill-Winded Draught is also one of my favourite beers)? I mean, the polite thing to do is to run away screaming, but since I had Gina Ginormous the hockey-loving ("HEY" loving) fan blocking my forward exit with her double-cartload of snacks (enough chocolatey cupcakes to make Miss Debbie bow in respect), all I could do was hold my breath (and that was the longest 8 seconds ever).

Now a bar of soap shouldn't be something to be afraid of (unless it's dropped in a communal shower), and certainly one of those "must have" items for the bathroom. Sure the kings of Europe covered themselves in oil and perfumes to disguise their musty aristocratic aromas (The Musty Aristocrats are one of my favorite Pop artists), but this stinky fellow behind wasn't royalty (the only kings and queens he'd ever know were in a deck of cards).

Fortunately my social anguish and sense of public awkwardness didn't last very long. Shortly thereafter (9 seconds or so), an elderly woman came up behind the old man with her pimped-out senior's shopping buggy, twitched one nostril, and then smacked him upside the head with a roll of pennies saying "geez boy, you smell like a dead rat that crawled out of the ass of another dead rat!".

Now I just order everything online just to avoid the elderly.