Here I was, minding my own business on the stairmaster for my 45-minute ritual of bargaining with myself for damn near anything to get me off quicker - and suddenly I'm beginning to wonder what I had possibly consumed that could make such a rancid smell escape my pores.
As discreetly as I could, I lifted my arms one-by-one and turned my nose to each pit - hoping I wouldn't knock myself out at such close range to this pungent stench. But it's just one of those things you can't stop yourself from doing. Now, I was as surprised as anyone that I smelled just fine. Not anything I'd bottle up and sell, but I certainly wasn't offended by me.
So now the hunt is on, what died and where is it hiding? At this point I see some other arms going up in front of me. It was synchronized pit smelling at the gym.
At exactly the same time, all of our heads turned to the left - to witness the only guy in the room who clearly has no discernible olfactory sense. It was the friggen Predator. Yes, THAT Predator. Schwarzenegger's arch nemesis. This dude is alive, and he smells like he still lives in the swamps of Guatemala where Arnold found him.
Okay, so maybe he wasn't the actual Predator, but he was the spitting image of him in a pastier, squishier, softer, fatter older version - all wrapped up in a wife-beater tank. If I were a full-fledged Super Hero (not the one in training) I might have suggested he wear sleeves to help soak up that funk.
So, the good news is, I was able to use the rancid smell as my bargaining chip to end my stairmaster gig in 20 minutes. As a matter of fact - the dude had the room all to himself lickety-split. My smelling tool is very important to me. I can't have some has-been movie villain corrupting my ability to sniff out good wine.
No comments:
Post a Comment