Cologne

Cologne: (n) scented toilet water or aftershave.

Just for the record (and if my vote counts) I firmly believe that all toilet water should be scented. I don’t know what other purpose the water
would have if it was out of its bowl, if it was not scented.

And I, for one, believe human beings are better if they smell good.

That may be because I’ve always been a portly fellow and greatly feared the stereotype of “all fat people stink.”

In other words, I don’t want some cloud of “p.u.” to descend on me in a moment when my deodorant is in retreat, my soap sniff has disappeared and my cologne is totally exhausted.

Without being too graphic, I put cologne everywhere. I don’t know why. There are places it seems unnecessary. In other words, not a normally high-traffic area. However, those regions are notorious for sprouting aromas which are generally deemed unpleasant.

So part of my morning ritual is to “smell up”–so that later on I don’t have to “smell down.”

I’ve been very fortunate. I’ve developed a reputation for nose approval.

I’m sure I’ve overdone it. For instance, folks should not be able to “smell you coming,” yet I have had people identify me from another room, knowing I was present long before they eyeballed me.

Oops.

I also mix fragrances of cologne–once again, depending on the different parts of the body, a splash may work somewhere and more expensive stuff to don the face.

I must acknowledge at this point that I have already overworked this subject. Possibly I lost your attention a couple of paragraphs ago.

You may think I am paranoid about any type of normal human body odor. You would be correct.

I am not trying to evangelize my obsession with cologne. I have met people who hate it, and some who even insist they are allergic.

But until future notice, I will be an island of fragrance instead of a land of “stinky poo.”

 

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Collie

Collie: (n) a sheepdog of a breed originating in Scotland

I was eleven years old before I realized they were not supposed to stink.

I’m talking about dogs.

Up to that point, I knew one dog–and this dog stunk. Ironically, her name was “Queenie.” Any pomp and circumstance associated with that name were purely accidental. She stunk. I could tell very time I drew near.

And near I drew.

Queenie was my Grandpa George’s animal. She was his favorite beast, person and thing.

Queenie felt great security in her job, and so pursued no personal hygiene. Half the day she wandered through the woods, living the life of a wild dog, to come
home to the little A-frame house as night was falling, to spend time with my grandpa.

I had jobs to do with Queenie. I kept praying that my grandpa would get old enough that he would become forgetful, and therefore fail to remember to ask me to do the job.

It was a two-parter.

Because Queenie was a collie, she had long fur which might have been lovely had it not been matted with dirt and grime, and filled with little stickers (which my grandpa referred to as “nettles”).

Grandpa wanted me to sit there during the visit, with Queenie’s snout lying in my lap, stinking up the room, and remove these little thistles from her fur. That was the first part.

The second part was that Queenie was a wild-type dog, and did not know how to get all the poop out of her butt with each bowel movement. So dangling from her backside were little sprinkles of dried turds, which Grandpa allowed me to remove by snipping them off with a small pair of scissors.

I will give Queenie one kudo: she never objected to any of the processes. Matter of fact, it reached a point that whenever I came into the room, she came over and laid her head on my knee, awaiting the treatment.

She smelled like everything bad that no one should ever inhale.

Her nettles always yanked out little pieces of hair, and the clippings from the back end–well, fortunately, time has healed me of the vision (as long as I don’t talk about it).

That is my experience with a collie. So you can see why, under no circumstances whatsoever, could I enjoy watching “Lassie.”

 

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Borne

Borne: (adj) past participle of bear

For centuries it was a common belief that a pile of garbage spawned flies.Dictionary B

Yes, it was thought that the reeking mess and putrid odor generated the life of the common pest.

It wasn’t really until a couple hundred years ago that we finally concluded that the flies existed elsewhere and were drawn to the garbage, which begs the question:

What would flies do if we didn’t provide them stink?

Likewise, what would be borne out in our society if we did not constantly advertise the more nauseating aspects of human behavior?

After all, it’s not video games, pornography and violent movies which birth terrorists and murderers. But there’s no doubt that the terrorists and murderers are drawn to mediocre fare.

What if we allowed our conscience to consider what type of creatures are stimulated by our art, our words, our politics, our religion and our attitudes?

Is it our responsibility to take authority over what we produce and make sure it isn’t a bar for the fly?

Or are we to assume that in the absence of trash, flies would just develop a hankering for caviar?

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Bonsai

Bonsai: (n) an ornamental tree or shrub grown in a pot

Once upon a time, in a kingdom where bank accounts were not depleted, I had some extra money burning a hole deep in my right pocket of selfishness.Dictionary B

It was scary.

I went over the bills three or four times just to make sure I hadn’t missed something, but at the end of my calculation, I discovered that I was temporarily endowed with abundance.

I wanted to do something lavishly weird–and not just lavish, like buying several cans of whipped cream, but weird. Something that would give others pause, but then they would feel foolish for questioning the wealthy fellow and his eccentric choices.

I hunted, I searched and I found a gentleman who sold bonsai trees.

I knew nothing about them. But I felt like owning one was a symbol of prosperity. So I bought two. Double the potency.

The fellow tried to explain to me the care of these plants and I listened with the attention span of a three-year-old who has to pee but also wants to ride the roller coaster.

When I got home with my bonsai trees, I realized that I had completely forgotten everything he said, and had left the literature behind, trusting my memory.

Then came that great, ridiculous American assertion: how hard can it be?

  • So I watered them
  • I trimmed their little branches (having remembered this being part of the process)
  • And every day when I returned, they looked a little worse

It was like watching your Grandma die of old age. I was concerned but totally helpless.

Then inexplicably, they developed tiny insects which started eating away at the bark.

It took about five weeks, while I heroically tried to give CPR to these dying new friends, but eventually they turned brown–and for some reason, started to stink.

I threw them both into a big garbage bag, took them out to the curb and said good-bye.

I can’t swear to it, but I thought I heard one of them, from within the bag, gasp, “Murderer.”

 

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Befriend

Befriend: (v) to act as a friend to someone by offering help or support.Dictionary B

$500.

That’s how much they were charging for a 1970 Corvette Stingray.

I was nineteen years of age and could not believe what I was reading in the advertisement.

It was a beautiful car, late-model, and my dear God…it was a Corvette. And they only wanted $500.

I just about broke my neck getting there, to see the vehicle, and when I arrived I was astounded that nobody else had shown up for the auction.

Now, even though $500 was well beyond my means, I would have done almost anything to get the money to buy the Corvette.

The gentleman selling the car explained that there was one big problem: a man had committed suicide in the car and no one had discovered him for three weeks.

It did creep me out a little bit, but I thought I could get over it–until he opened up the door and I sniffed the problem.

The odor of the decomposing body of the suicidal owner was absorbed into the fiberglass of the car.

Nobody was interested in a car that stunk.

It was beautiful on the outside and smelled rotten inside.

I passed.

Over the years, I have remembered that story in my dealings with human beings.

Even though it seems noble to befriend others and help out people in need, you have to make sure that no matter how good things look on the outside, that these individuals have taken time to go inside themselves and clean out the garbage.

Rotten people continue to do rotten things, until they decide to stop being rotten.

  • You can befriend them.
  • You can love them.
  • You can help them.
  • You can encourage them.
  • You can send them to a seminar to learn about self-esteem.

But it is up to them to remove the stink.

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