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Wednesday, July 11, 2007


The Three Words That Best Describe Me Are As Follows, And I Quote...

New York City is fucking hot right now. How hot is it? It's so hot you could fry an egg on the sidewalk and then realize that you're out of sausage and get all pissed off at your spouse who was supposed to buy sausage but didn't. It's that hot.

Yesterday, my wife and I went for a run in that heat. We just did our normal run down the park. It's not that far; maybe three miles. It's kind of wussified, all things considered. But yesterday, in the heat, it was a bit more taxing than usual. And we got a bit sweatier than usual.

I, in particular, was sweatier than Colin Farrell waiting for the results of his HIV test. Sweatier than Dom Delouise walking up a hill. I was real fucking sweaty.

And it's good to sweat. It's nice to finish a run and feel like you've strained a bit. But, see, along with that sweat comes the stench.

I, in particular, smelled something less than fresh. I can put deodorant on with a trowel and, if I sweat as much as I did yesterday, I'll smell like a pound and a half of goat cheese that's been left behind the dryer for a week. Because the sweat, which isn't exactly rose water, runs all over my body and mixes with other stuff that all reeks and it all forms kind of a stew.

I smelled like a dirty litterbox stuffed with braunschweiger. I smelled like curried skunk farts. I smelled like Dick Cheney's soul. So of course my wife suggested we do some shopping.

New York retail clerks aren't the friendliest folks under the best conditions, never mind when the customer smells like he just crawled through a field of pig shit. So they made a brief initial attempt to offer me help in the store, but they quickly backed away like Nosferatu from bucket full of holy water. I quickly told my wife I'd wait for her outside.

I also pity the poor bastards who had to ride the subway home with us. I could see the goddamn stink lines coming off of me from 96th Street all the way home. It was the kind of stench that you'd normally expect to find emanating from the passed-out homeless dude with the dried puke on his shoes. I think one lady sitting near me actually held her breath for thirty blocks.

So I'm thinking that, when we run today, I'm going to bring a bar of soap and just jump into the fountain at Columbus Circle when we're done. I might be arrested, but it'd be a damn sight better than making a bunch of poor, helpless commuters vomit.

Or, you know, you could run in a gym and have big fat sweaty gay black men saunter around the joint like it was a low-rent strip club.
"curried skunk farts"

I peed a little.
But really, that's just gross.

skunk farts.
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