soppingwethog

[soppingwethog]

what is your writing wisdom, hog?

I'm sorry, but this question means nothing to me.

[soppingwethog]

Green Vanille by Régime des Fleurs

I am awfully sorry for the length of this review. I wish it were shorter. I wish it were possible for me to remove even one single word from this lengthy missive, but I fear that doing so would undermine its candor. I hope, despite its seemingly long-winded nature, you are able to glean some insightful information from it that may leave you better-informed than you were beforehand.

A few months ago, I took a trip to the coast where I indulged in some much needed solitude and relaxation. This year, like all years, has been a difficult one for me. That is not to say that it has been unpleasant without exception. There have been many moments of elation and true joy, but as a whole, things have been quite punishing for me. In an attempt to remove myself from the horrors of my common existence, I planned this short trip so that I could bathe myself in the restorative ocean air and, if luck happened to smile upon me, have myself a nice seagull dinner.

Many people look down on the lesser fowl such as seagulls and crows and mice as they think that they are filthy animals without much flavor or nutritional density. I will say that their assumption about these beasts’ cleanliness is indeed correct. I speak from experience when I say that seagulls are terrifically dirty and smelly, but that should not, and does not, stop me from making a meal of them when I can. They are made of meat, after all.

In the township I visited, there is no season for hunting seagulls as they are seen as a nuisance and the local municipality encourages people to dispose of them by any means necessary. For a time, they were even offering rewards to those who were willing and able to present evidence of any gulls that they snuffed out of existence. This was not something in which I ever participated as I do not enjoy taking the life of an animal just to do so. I am not afraid to humanely close the eyes of a seagull in a permanent way if I plan to dine on its stringy flesh, but hunting for sport is not something which has ever interested me.

Catching and assassinating a seagull is no small task. Yes, there are old-timers who have spent decades perfecting their techniques, and they may make it look simple, but I can assure you, it is tricky business. I do not say this as an attempt to dissuade you from trying your hand at the time-honored tradition of seagull hunting. On the contrary, I only hope to inform you that it takes patience, cunning, wisdom, skill, and courage if you hope to catch yourself one of these winged devils.

I don’t believe that this is the appropriate time or place to provide a thorough manual for how best to catch, dispatch, clean, and cook a seagull. Instead, I will simply say that I, after a good deal of trouble, was able to catch two of them during my trip to the sea. Unfortunately, the first outsmarted me and was able to escape with not only its life, but my pocketbook as well. The second feathered fiend was not so lucky, so into the stockpot it went along with plenty of seawater, onions, garlic, carrots, kelp, potatoes, and a myriad of spices which I purchased from a local spice vendor at no small expense. I boiled the bird on a lonely stretch of beach as the sun was setting and revelled in the delectable, aromatic plumes that billowed from the simmering cauldron.

Just as the soup was about ready to eat, a horrible blast of wind issued forth from the briny sea. The squall was so intense that it toppled the bubbling soup pot. As I was close at hand, mindfully tending to it, I quickly found my lower half saturated in the scalding, fragrant liquid. I believe the following goes without saying, but I shall say it anyway. The extremely hot soup burned my loins very badly. The pain was immense and indescribable. My flesh sizzled and puckered as I did my best to remove my soaked trousers as I ran toward the sea. I meant to dive in. I hoped that the cool water would extinguish my intolerable groin pain.

I don’t recall much of what happened immediately after, but it is my understanding that I never made it into the ocean. I must have tripped over a bit of driftwood or a tangle of kelp as I was running toward the waves for I found the following day, unconscious, facedown in the sand, with my trousers knotted around my ankles. The woman who found me was kind enough to phone for a medic. After they arrived, they were eventually able to rouse me from my pain-induced slumber and load me into their vehicle. They then ferried me to a local hospital where I was briefly and incorrectly pronounced dead by a doctor who has since had his license revoked and shredded. I can assure you that I am not now, nor have I ever been, dead.

As I convalesced in this unfamiliar seaport town, I spent much of my time gazing out a small, unwashed window next to my bed. It was a trying time for me, but I would be lying if I said that it was entirely unpleasant. I became friendly with one of the cleaning staff at the hospital and he took the time to teach me to play a card game that he called “squat.” I never completely understood the rules and it seemed as though they sometimes changed with his mood, but it was nice to spend an hour or two each week with another person.

He was a short, rotund man of indeterminate age and he told me that his name was Pferdeschwanz. He always had a sly look in his eye and a sweet, powerful odor about him. On the day before I was to be released from the hospital, I asked Pferdeschwanz what fragrance he wore. At first, he refused to tell me. After much begging and an exchange of thirty dollars, he told me that the potent scent in which he was constantly enrobed was none other than Green Vanille by Régime des Fleurs.

It is a scent that, when sniffed, will always remind me of the cantankerous little man with whom I shared a few precious hours while I was locked away in that seaside sanatorium. I will never forget Pferdeschwanz and I pray that he shan’t forget me.

[soppingwethog]

L'eau de Parfum by Cirque du Soleil

I’m sorry. I truly am. I know that this review may be a bit more verbose than others, but I really believe, in my heart of hearts, that each word, idea, and detail I have included are absolutely essential. They fit together to form sentences that give an honest, robust review of this specific fragrance and doing anything less just wouldn’t be fair. I also felt the need to provide a tiny bit of background information regarding my initial experiences with this potent scented fluid to give more depth to this review.

When I was a child, I would often fall asleep with a mouthful of cola. I couldn’t get enough of the sweet, bubbly liquid. I would drink it all day and all night. I would freeze it into cubes and eat it just to have another way to ingest this potent, additive-filled ambrosia. After a great deal of practice, I eventually trained myself to fall asleep with a large gulp of it resting in my smiling mouth. I found the effervescence comforting and the flavor delicious. It lulled me to sleep as if I were embraced in the arms of some benign seraph.

Of course, I don’t drink colas any longer. Those days are gone, just like most of my original adult teeth. I have had them replaced with state-of-the-art imitations and I must say, many of them look quite convincing. Unfortunately, there are a few that I had to install myself and those leave something to be desired, but for the most part, I am happy with my unique set of chompers.

I ceased imbibing my once-beloved beverages when I was informed by a man of medicine that I would likely perish from sugar poisoning if I did not change my ways. This was a stark wakeup call and it was just what I needed to rid myself of my terrible cola addiction for good. I am happy to report that it has been several years since I have had a sip of the bubbly brown, but I would be lying if I said that I did not feel the prodding, wet fingers of temptation tickle my backbone every now and again.

During my meeting with the learned doctor, he was kind enough to diagnose me with what he so eloquently called “mudtooth.” Apparently, it is a sort of infection of the tooth that causes a muck-like substance to seep from the base of the denticle and, if not thoroughly treated, can spread to other teeth until the entire mouth is colonized by the dark, viscous goo which means that the mudtooth has evolved into the even more dreaded mudmouth.

This news caused me a great deal of anxiety. Luckily, the good doctor, in his infinite wisdom, was kind enough to explain that there is a simple cure for mudtooth. The first step is to stop sleeping with one’s entire mouth filled with sugary liquid. The second step is to perform a rinse thrice daily with a medicated tincture. When provided with a pamphlet that outlined the proper rinsing technique and the ingredients used in the prohibitively expensive oral elixir, I immediately knew that I would never be able to afford this curative solution. But, having the brain that I do, I realized that there are many serums available to the public which have nearly-identical ingredient lists. One of which, of course, is the redolent L'eau de Parfum by Cirque du Soleil.

I thanked the doctor for his warmth and hard work and left his office in haste. That very evening, I placed an order for the aforementioned perfume and waited impatiently for it to arrive in the post. After a few difficult days, I was happy to find a neatly-wrapped parcel on my doorstep. I quickly opened the box to reveal an ornate, almost superlunary bottle of extremely attractive design and girth. It was quite a sight to behold. I set down the bottle and revelled in its beauty for a minute or two before prying open the cap and filling my mouth entirely with the bitter, astringent perfume.

The instructions I had been provided stated in no uncertain terms that mudtooth could only be eradicated by prolonged contact with a vulnerary tonic. This meant that I spent the following ninety minutes swishing and trying not to swallow this hearty dose of L'eau de Parfum by Cirque du Soleil. It was no easy task, but I am pleased to tell you that since I have begun my rinsing regimen, my few living teeth have been a whole lot less muddy. I think I may be able to rid my mouth of this terrible blight completely if I can stick with it for a few more months. I must. I fear to imagine what might become of me and my mouth if I cannot.

[soppingwethog]

Amber Vanilla by The 7 Virtues

Please forgive me for what I have done, what I am currently doing, and what I will do. I beg of thee. I’m sorry. I promise. I understand that the length of this review may seem daunting. I really do. However, I believe that in order to provide a fair, balanced, honest review, I must include a little bit of background information about the first time I experienced this singularly aromatic serum.

Allow me to start by saying that I generally do not make it a habit to hire drivers for my transportation. For one, I am not a millionaire and thus cannot afford such exorbitant spending. For two, my legs often work pretty well which means that I have little excuse not to use them to propel me toward my many destinations. As such, it is a rare and somewhat uncomfortable situation when I find the need to use a cellular telephone application to hire a driver to meet me at a place of my choosing and deliver me unto a separate place of my choosing.

One such scenario presented itself to me just a few days ago. I won’t bore you with the details about why I felt compelled to pay a stranger to drive me in their personal vehicle from my home to the local courthouse, but let’s just say that I am currently in the process of attempting to see if the city has any old maps or records of my property as I have heard rumor that there may be a significant cache of precious gems buried somewhere on the grounds.

This particular day of which I speak was a Thursday and my tasks required me to hire not one but two drivers, one for the trip from my home to the town center, and another to deliver me back home. The first driver arrived at the address I provided at precisely the agreed upon time. I thought this was a good sign, but I was quickly proved wrong when, upon entering the strange man’s vehicle, I found that he was not a stranger to me at all. He was, in fact, one of the two Stinking Brothers.

The Stinking Brothers are quite well-known in the town in which I currently reside. I do not know either of them well, as I do my best to avoid them, but, as you can see, this is not always possible. I cannot say for certain if Stinking is their legal last name, but it would not surprise me if it were because there is no more suitable name for these two reprehensible cretins. I won’t use their real first names in this review as I do not wish to publicly shame them any more than they publicly shame themselves each day by choosing to conduct themselves the way they do.

You see, the Stinking Brothers, who I will henceforth refer to as Okra and Pod, are two of the most uncouth, repugnant, malodorous men I have ever come across and if you have read my recent, award-winning review for Molecule 01 + Mandarin by Escentric Molecules, you know that I, unfortunately, have had no shortage of run-ins with some indefatigably smelly fellows.

The elder of the two Stinking brothers, Pod, was the man who piloted the vehicle which was to take me to my destination. At first, I hesitated to enter his motor carriage as my stomach was already upset after eating such a large, rich breakfast of five poached eggs, a bag of gravy, and an assortment of candies which I had been given two nights prior by an unhinged theater usher who has since perished, may the Lord rest his harried soul. With my guts full of eggs and sweets, I knew that the introduction of Pod’s fetid aroma would complicate things, to say the least. However, as I had already paid a tidy sum in order to secure his services, I felt it necessary to follow through and do what I could to maintain my composure and “hold down my cabbage” as my step-great-grandmother used to say.

The trip was not long, but Pod reeked so bitterly of sweat that it took extreme concentration and effort to stop myself from bounding from the moving vehicle and embracing death with open arms. He truly smelled like a soiled oaf. I felt terribly sick and lightheaded by the time we reached the courthouse. Pod’s sour odor had penetrated my nose and mouth and skin. At one point, I felt nearly certain that I could hear his horrible stench. It was an uncomfortable ride and one that I shan’t be forgetting any time soon.

I had booked my return trip for two hours later and I was able to finish my business at the courthouse in just over an hour which meant that I had about fifty minutes to do as I pleased before a new stranger would drive me to my home. I made the most of my time by wandering aimlessly through the town’s bustling center. I peered into shop windows and admired the new wares and fashions which all looked so enticing. Of course, I had no plans to make any purchases, but there was one particular item which I happened upon during my leisurely stroll that caught my eye and captured my imagination beyond any others.

While passing a perfume seller’s shop, I saw, proudly displayed on a small, handsome stand behind the plate glass window, an attractive bottle which was festooned in vibrant, vernal flowers. This, of course, was Amber Vanilla by The 7 Virtues. I made quick work of entering the establishment, questioning the proprietor about this specific manmade fragrance, and finalizing the transaction by handing over no small amount of my savings in exchange for the aforementioned bottle.

I was pleased with my purchase. I examined the bottle carefully before slipping it into the breast pocket of my coat. I glanced at a clock which was affixed to the eastern side of a bank building which I was passing and saw that it was nearly time for my hired driver to arrive at the courthouse and take me home. I wasted no time in making my way to the designated pickup area and just after I arrived, I saw a new, clean car pull to the curb just a few meters away. I walked toward the car and opened the rear passenger-side door where I was immediately met with a familiar, ungodly smell. I sat down and buckled the safety belt and looked into the windshield-mounted rear view mirror where I instantly recognized the wretched face of the younger Stinking Brother, Okra.

I could not believe my foul luck. I could not believe his foul odor. How could both of the Stinking Brothers work separately as private drivers? How could I happen to be served by both of them within a few hours on the very same day? How is it possible that they both smell so unspeakably terrible at all times? I do not expect to ever find answers to any of my queries. As I have advanced in age, I have learned over and over that the world is a horrifically cruel place where logic and reason are often replaced by brutality and nonsense.

On top of Okra’s supremely acrid aroma, I found myself seated next to the hungry, drooling jaws of his hound. The dog itself was also emitting a rank, off-putting smell, but it was nothing compared to that of either of the Stinking Brothers. I had hoped that the trip home would be quick and uneventful and that I might be lucky enough to make it there without becoming violently ill, but alas, ‘twas not to be.

Okra drove wildly and although I did my best not to appear worried lest my agitation upset the snarling beast seated next to me, I did unintentionally let out a pained cry when the younger Stinking Brother hit what I truly believe was a living man while speeding through a congested intersection. My concerned yelp proved to be a sort of dinner bell to the vicious mongrel. It immediately snapped its jaws shut around my left thigh and shook my corpse about the backseat as if I were little more than a scrap of soiled linen.

I thrashed and pleaded for help, but at this, Okra simply shouted angrily and commanded that I leave his long-toothed menace alone. I begged and screamed and tried to explain that it was not I who was the aggressor, but the wolfhound that had its filthy mouth wrapped around my tenderest of fleshes. Hearing this, Okra slammed on the vehicle’s brakes which caused me to tumble forward, smashing my face and head on the rear of the passenger seat in front of me. Luckily, the sudden cessation of forward momentum and my resultant toppling had caused the ill-tempered cur to release my mangled leg from its powerful grasp. Unluckily, Okra then exited the vehicle, walked briskly around to the rear passenger door, opened it, tossed me to the ground, rifled through my pockets, pilfered my billfold and my newly-purchased bottle of Amber Vanilla by The 7 Virtues, and left me to die in the street.

It was over an hour before a passing motorist took pity on my crumpled frame and decided to stop and call for help. As I lay on the macadam, I had time to consider and question many things. I wondered why things like this so often happen to me. I wondered what it might be like to live a normal life. I wondered if either of the Stinking Brothers would do all living inhabitants of earth a favor by spraying a bit of Amber Vanilla by The 7 Virtues onto their awful flesh. I truly hope that they do. Hope is all that one can do sometimes.

[soppingwethog]

White Rice by d'Annam

I am terrifically sorry about the length and girth of this review. I really am. I wish it wasn’t as long and thick as it is, but I believe it would be unfair and unhelpful were I not to include the details I have. In order to paint a more vibrant, realistic picture of this singular fragrance, I feel compelled to provide a little background about the first day I wore this out in public.

It was a fine spring morning some weeks ago. I had skipped work because something inside of my body felt painfully swollen. I never did figure out which one of my internal organs decided to inflate with bitter juices that day, but luckily, the swelling has since yielded and has been replaced with a vague itching. I must admit that the itching worried me at first as I had never felt an itch from within my corpse before, but I have now grown to enjoy the sensation and I do not look forward to its future disappearance.

The morning was cool and the sky was cloudless. I thought that a brisk walk might help cure my internal swelling so I set out toward a park that isn’t more than two miles from my home. Before I left my abode, I applied a healthy dose of White Rice by d'Annam. I must say that it is a unique fragrance. It is unlike anything I had smelled before.

With my throat and groin fully saturated in this smelly concoction, I headed out into the world and toward the park. This particular park is populated with no small number of geese, ducks, mallards, swans, and other waterfowl as there is a large, stagnant pond where these birds like to gather and do what birds do best; use their cloacas. I walked quickly and with great satisfaction as the cool breeze refreshed my skin and invigorated my loins. I reached the park and swiftly headed for the pond so that I might sit on a bench and observe the local wildlife.

Unfortunately, I never made it to the bench because as I neared the pond’s edge, I caught the attention of a small group of geese and they wasted no time in charging straight at me. For a moment, I was frightened at the sight of this mobilized unit of pond honkers, but I calmed myself by remembering that I am stronger than any goose. This hubris proved to be my undoing as the geese made short work of knocking me down and doing me a great deal of harm.

If you’re anything like me, you were not aware that a goose’s mouth is fully serrated. Their tongues and bills are framed with terrifyingly sharp barbs which made quick work of defeating my futile defenses. I tried to shoo them away. I tried running, but quickly slipped and fell in the ubiquitous goose excrement. In a matter of seconds, I was being bitten and chewed and pecked and honked at by a group of five very ornery geese.

They were in a complete frenzy and for a moment, I thought this might be my final undoing. Luckily, a group of youths came to my rescue when they ran toward the violent goose cluster and scared them away by swinging their skateboards to and fro. This wasn’t the first time I had been saved by a skateboard and I have a strong feeling that it won’t be my last.

With the geese scattering and honking and hissing and spraying their waste as they retreated, I was finally able to compose myself. My saviors asked if I was alright and although I most certainly was not, I felt compelled to try and appear tough and cool so I lied and said that I was fine. I then made my way to a bench where I sat and wept silently for some time. After I was able to settle myself, I examined my ruined clothing, my numerous wounds, and did what I could to scrape the bird waste out of my hair and off of my skin. It was then that I noticed that the majority of the bite marks were concentrated on my throat and crotch. Using my brain, I was then able to deduce that the geese had been drawn to the aromatic elixir which I had applied less than one hour prior.

Let this be a warning to you should you choose to wear White Rice by d'Annam in the springtime in an area where geese are present. I know that a single event is not enough to prove causation, but I am unwilling to test this theory again so please, just be careful out there.

[soppingwethog]

Candied Citron by Love & Toast

I want to be up front and apologize for the length of this review. I did my best to trim it down, but I understand that it’s still a bit lengthy. However, I do believe that each of the words spelled out in the sentences below are essential to provide a full, accurate picture of this specific fragrance.

This is the second paragraph, and again, I am prefacing it with an apology. I’m sorry. I really don’t mean to be a braggart, but it is my duty to be forthright about the fact that I have a truly wonderful girlfriend. She is kind and smart and gentle and sweet and beautiful and funny. She is a delight to behold and the world is a better place because she is in it. Again, I do not mean to boast of my incredible luck. I only bring up my amazing girlfriend because she plays a key role in my first exposure to Candied Citron by Love & Toast, and I love her dearly.

A few months ago, I came down with a nasty stomach virus. I will spare you the wet, pungent details about my illness. A photographic description of the liquids that sprayed forth from my many orifices would not be fit for this or any audience. I will simply say that I felt extraordinarily unwell and my infinitely kind and generous girlfriend took incredible care of me during my lowest lows.

Being the bullheaded fool that I am, I refused to call a doctor or take any sort of pain relieving tablets or capsules. Instead, I writhed and moaned in agony in my sweat-soaked mess of a bed for several days and nights. The discomfort was total and enveloping. My memory from the time is spotty, likely in part to my fever-induced delirium, but I do remember that the benevolent angel with whom I share my heart was kind enough to do what she could to soothe my frayed nerves and bowels.

During this time, my appetite was nonexistent. The smell of any food made me immediately empty my guts upward like a truly horrible gargoyle-shaped fountain. Of course, I needed to eat or I would have perished. This is a fact of life. One must eat lest they wither and go the way of all flesh.

My singularly magnificent girlfriend tried a host of methods to make me eat, but as soon as she would enter my chamber with a bowl of broth or a piece of toast, my innards would start thrashing about like a bag full of concupiscent rats and I would soon find myself blasting my watery, acrid waste into the thunderbucket. I was at my wit’s end and I dare say that my beloved was as well. I was ready to give up. I was so weak and in such great pain. I hadn’t eaten in days and my body was little more than twigs and fruit leather. At one point, I sincerely felt myself floating toward a bright, distant light.

It was just then that I smelled something I hadn’t smelled since I was a child. It was something familiar yet exciting. It was something sacred, yet foreign. This intense aroma brought me back from the edge of collapse. It pulled me from the hungry jaws of the angel of death. This smell, of course, was Candied Citron by Love & Toast. My impossibly lovely partner had just applied a bit of it to her perfect wrists and as she entered my wrecked hovel of a bedroom, the gentle aroma washed over me and flashes of distant memories came racing back from moth-eaten corners of my fever-roasted brain.

I shan’t detail these memories of mine as they are too personal to be revealed even in such a respectful, supportive place as this. I will instead keep them to myself, but I will say that they were all uniquely lovely and invigorating. I felt as though I had been somewhat revived, and it wasn’t long before I was gingerly sipping small mouthfuls of warm broth from a teaspoon held in the delicate, refined hand of my one true love.

I will never forget those incredibly dark days. I will never forget this brush with death. I will never forget the smell of Candied Citron by Love & Toast.

[soppingwethog]

Molecule 01 + Mandarin by Escentric Molecules

I’m very sorry, but this review may be a bit longer than most. However, I feel that in order to provide a robust, fair review, I must give a little bit of context regarding the first time I came across this intriguing perfume.

Some years ago, I lived next to a married couple who were truly and unwaveringly awful. I don’t feel that it is appropriate to give their full legal names in this review so I will simply refer to the husband as Andrew and the wife as Mrs. Andrew. For reference, he was forty-nine and she was forty-four. For further reference, they were both wretched, insufferable fools who no doubt still annoy and harass any poor creature who might be unfortunate enough to cross their path.

Luckily, I no longer live near these heathens. They have since moved far away. You see, this couple, who again, for reference, were forty-nine years old and forty-four years old, smelled absolutely putrid. It is not an exaggeration to say that I often felt it necessary to hold my breath when passing them on the sidewalk. I never did determine the precise cause of their acrid aroma, but I think it’s safe to assume that it was due in no small part to their horrible, off-putting personalities.

Just a few days before the swift departure of this godforsaken pair, I was forced to interact with Andrew in close proximity. Being the neighborly sort, I had, against my better judgement, consented to assist him with a bit of difficult outdoor work. I had expected it to take only a few minutes and I assumed that the assault on my senses would be less intense due to our interaction taking place out of doors.

Alas, this was not the case. The acerbic odor he emitted was so pungent and intense that nothing short of hurricane-force winds could have saved my singed nostrils. I did what I could to mitigate the fetid scent that wafted outward from Andrew’s rotten innards and exterior. I held down my lunch which repeatedly sought to climb back out of my throat. I covered my mouth with a sodden rag from time to time in an effort to filter out his heinous stench, but ‘twas all for naught as his fetor was that of a hearty pile of freshly-plopped equine waste. I somehow managed to make it through the ordeal without passing out and quickly returned to my abode where I threw my ruined clothes in the garbage and showered several consecutive times in order to get Andrew’s stink out of my hair. I was exhausted and sick to my stomach. I felt lightheaded and worried that I might faint so I spent the remainder of the weekend in bed.

By Monday, I had regained most of my strength. I then decided that I would try and do something that might lessen the power of the forty-nine year old Andrew’s malodorous aroma. I ventured into town and headed straight for a small fragrance seller’s shop. I entered the brightly-lit store and asked the proprietor if he might be able to recommend something that I could spray on somebody who was not only annoying, rude, ignorant, dumb, stupid, ugly, and pugnacious, but also stank like a sick dog aflame. Right away, he had just the thing for me. From a high shelf he procured a handsome, rectangular bottle which contained Molecule 01 + Mandarin by Escentric Molecules.

My hopes were high as I paid for this potential cure-all. I thanked the perfume seller and returned home where I spent the rest of the evening admiring the thoughtfully-crafted container of amber-hued liquid. I didn’t dare test the perfume myself. I needed it to be in perfectly new condition. I planned to present it to rotten Andrew as a gift. I thought that doing so might encourage him to douse himself in the stuff and could help lessen the horrific impact of his existence upon those around him.

Unfortunately, I was never able to present my gift to Andrew as he and his forty-four year old wife were arrested two days later on charges of stinking in an illegal way. I dare say that this was for the best. I feel as though lifelong imprisonment is the only appropriate measure to take against a pair so thoroughly awful and smelly.

[soppingwethog]

11 11 Vanilla by Lake & Skye

I am awfully sorry. I understand that this review may be a bit longer than most, but I can assure you that it was written with genuine care and consideration. I will do my best to provide a full, illuminating picture of this potent and intoxicating perfume. In order to do so, I find it essential to provide a little context regarding my first exposure to this keenly fragrant elixir.

Let me start by saying that I hate flying. I don’t hate the idea of flying as a whole. In fact, I am quite grateful that the Brothers Wright invented their fantastical flying machine all those years ago. I give thanks to the millions of pilots that have given their time and energy to help transport man and beast all across this big, wet orb we call Earth.

However, the act of flying is something I personally find utterly repulsive. It is extremely annoying to the point where I often get debilitating headaches leading up to a flight. I try to avoid flying as much as possible, but alas, there are some things in life that require one to do something they truly can’t stand. The older I get, the more I realize that much of life is simply tolerating something you hate. It’s a mess, but I know of no better alternative so I continue with the slog.

I had to fly recently and, as always, I was stricken with an enormous headache in the hours leading up to the departure. These headaches generally last throughout the entirety of the flight and they sometimes extend into the following day, which is just what I experienced during this particular voyage. On top of that, I was seated next to a hideous man who had somehow managed to sneak aboard the airplane an ungodly amount of chewing tobacco which he greedily sucked, slurped, and spat mere inches from my throbbing head.

The sounds and smells that emanated from this man’s mouth were unspeakably foul and potent. As soon as the Fasten Seatbelt sign was deluminated, I ran as quickly as I could to the rear end of the cabin where the water closet was located. Now, in addition to the explosive head pain I was experiencing, I was also queasy and nauseous due to the tobacco juice fumes and sounds that had assaulted my weary senses.

Of course, the lavatory was occupied which meant that I was forced to wait and hold down my lunch as best I could until it was again vacant. Luckily, this didn’t take long and soon I was inside the cramped, dark room where I emptied my quivering innards into the stainless steel bowl. I tried my best to be discreet and wretch as quietly as I could, but the wet tobacco stink embedded in my nostrils made this impossible. I hacked and choked and coughed until the contents of my innards had left the shackles of my skeleton and landed noisily in the bowl.

The violence of this act had made a mess of not only the toilet and the walls of the tiny bathroom, but of my clothing and hair as well. I did what I could to rinse the bits of digested grilled cheese sandwich from my frock and mane, but the pounding on the door, which was at this point incessant, meant that I felt compelled to exit the locked room as quickly as possible.

I made my way back to my seat to find the nightmarish tobacco chewer fast asleep, drooling a thick, viscous sludge from the corner of his mouth. I alerted a flight attendant and asked if I might be moved to a less disgusting area in the cabin. She refused outright and, much to my surprise, blamed me for the overwhelming stink which came from the unconscious man’s rotten mouth.

Before I could explain that it was not me but my neighbor who was the emanator of the foul odor, the flight attendant had produced a bottle of 11 11 Vanilla by Lake & Skye and had sprayed two quick blasts into my open maw. Again, I found myself doubled over, heaving, coughing, and choking on the pungent, stinging fluid which had just been sprayed down my throat.

My eyes watered and my lungs burned as I did what I could to rid my airways of this clearly inedible liquid. I spent much of the remainder of the flight in the same bathroom where I had so recently been. By the time we landed, I was delirious with exhaustion and dehydration. In fact, I had to be carted off of the plane by a pair of twin medics. As they wheeled me to the baggage claim, I asked them what it was like to have a twin. Both of them, in perfect unison, told me that it wasn’t any of my business. I didn’t know what to make of that then and I still don’t today.

[soppingwethog]

Vanilla Vibes by Juliette Has A Gun

I’m so sorry for taking up so much of your time and brain energy units with this lengthy review, but I do honestly believe that this fragrance deserves a well-reasoned, honest writeup and in order to do so, I feel it necessary to provide a bit of background information about the first time I came across this unique and fragrant brew.

Sixteen weeks ago, I sat at a booth in a diner in an unfamiliar city, the name of which I will not include in this review as I do not know how to spell it properly. I had just ordered five grilled cheese sandwiches. I don’t generally eat multiple sandwiches during a single meal. In fact, thinking about it now, I don’t know that I have ever done that. What I sometimes like to do is order multiple sandwiches and then eat one each day until they have vanished completely from this earth. That was my intended purpose upon entering the aforementioned diner and I am proud to say that I completed my goal.

While I waited for my sandwiches to be delivered unto me, I noticed a couple who were sitting at the booth in front of my face. I watched them eat and laugh and talk and joke. They appeared to really have a genuine interest in each other. It warmed my heart to see this young, happy couple enjoying a fine luncheon together. I sighed to myself and thanked my lucky stars for all of the love in the world, past, present, and future.

Just then, the server, a svelte, mustachioed man of indeterminate age, brought out my sandwiches, each wrapped in wax paper with the exception of one which I planned to eat then and there. He deposited my greasy treasure onto the tabletop in front of me and bowed almost imperceptibly before he retreated behind the service counter and into the kitchen.

I made quick work of my savory sandwich and I am not ashamed to say that I enjoyed every last bite of it. I thought it strange that they included strawberry jelly in a grilled cheese sandwich, but who am I to question the culinary skills of those learned kitchen workers who so dutifully prepare meal after meal for the citizenry of this land?

As I finished my sandwich, my attention again turned to the couple who were seated in the booth in front of me. Something spectacular must have happened while my attention was focused upon my wet meal, because the two of them were no longer flirting and talking to each other in loving tones, but instead were shouting and cussing in a most unbecoming manner.

It may seem silly, but the boisterous outburst which I beheld frightened me to the point where I decided it best to immediately pay for my meal and leave the restaurant, but before I was able to do so, the couple became more unruly and the young woman, who was now standing on top of the table, screaming, threatening her partner and all who dared look her way, eyes blazing like some sort of maiden of death, caught sight of me frantically trying to escape. She then proceeded to focus her ire on me which resulted in a great deal of things being hurled at my head and body. I was pelted with a large ceramic platter, an ice-filled drinking glass, some sort of beef bone, a smattering of French fries, and finally, a nearly-empty bottle of Vanilla Vibes by Juliette Has A Gun which managed to strike me directly in my open eye.

I stumbled forth, hands outstretched before me, until I found refuge behind the service counter with a few other terrified patrons and waitstaff. I won’t bore you with the details of the couple’s arrest, escape from custody, and secondary arrest, but I will say that the vision in my left eye is still somewhat blurry and the doctors have told me that they cannot guarantee that it will ever return to its former glory. But not all is lost as the bottle which so violently accosted my ocular orb made its way into my shirt pocket and now resides in a drawer in my home. Every cloud has a silver lining and in this case, the silver lining as a potent, aromatic fluid.

[soppingwethog]

Xtra Milk by DedCool

I’m awfully sorry. I don’t mean to take up too much of your precious time, but I do want to provide a well-rounded, thoughtful review and in order to do so, I feel that it’s necessary to give a little bit of background information about the first time I came upon this particular fragrance.

You see, I was lucky enough to be given a bottle of this unique, aromatic juice as a gift. It was given to me by a man whose house I was sitting. He was out of town on what he said was business and he had employed me to guard his home while he was away. You might think that “guard” is an exaggeration, but I can assure you that it is not.

His home was filled with hundreds upon hundreds of collectable cards. He had misprinted baseball cards worth tens of thousands of dollars. He had business cards that he had plucked out of the slop-filled gutter. He had playing cards and index cards and greeting cards and cards the likes of which I had never seen before and hope I never see again. Before he left, he explained to me that his entire collection was worth just under two million dollars. I am no card appraiser so I took him at his word because I had no other choice.

During his absence, his home was assailed nightly by masked intruders and cunning thieves. Luckily, he had prepared me for this which meant that I was within arm’s reach of a pot of boiling oil at all times. There is nothing like a faceful of scalding hot grease to make a man rethink his thievery.

The robbers returned each evening I was there and I soon found a sort of rhythm where I would scald one intruder, refill the saucepan with peanut oil, put it back on the burner, and by the time it reached four hundred degrees, a new bandit would be attempting to slide down the chimney or break open a kitchen window and I would repeat the process again until the excitement died down and I was able to get a few minutes of sleep.

It was a grueling six days and nights of this, but I was handsomely rewarded for my trouble when I received a letter addressed to me. I thought this was strange as nobody other than the homeowner and myself knew that I was staying there. I opened the letter to find that it was written by the homeowner. It explained that he had been jailed for crimes that I’d rather not divulge in this review. Suffice it to say that he ran afoul of the law in a way that is both exciting and terrifying.

The letter continued. It said that he would be attempting to escape his prison cell but that this would likely take some time. He asked that I remain at his home so that I could continue guarding it until he was able to escape or until I perished, whichever came first. He added a postscript which directed me to go into his master bedroom and open the lowermost drawer of his armoire where I would find a token of his thanks.

I followed his instructions and in the aforementioned drawer I found a brand new bottle of Xtra Milk by DedCool. I was stunned at this thoughtful gift. I decided that I would wear it that evening while I scalded the faces and throats of dozens of strangers with my cauldrons of boiling oil.

Unfortunately, that evening proved to be especially difficult. The intruders were more powerful than they had been up to that point and one of them managed to get all the way inside before I had a chance to cook his flesh with a hearty splash of hot cooking fat. Don’t you worry. I was able to stop the man in his tracks with a toss of the old grease bucket, but in doing so, I spilled a great quantity onto the hardwood floor.

As I dragged the man with the melting face from the dining room into the basement, I realized that I hadn’t yet applied my newly-gifted fragrance. Once the man was safely disposed of, I ran back to the dining room where I had left the small bottle of scented fluid. Like the wretched fool that I am, I had completely forgotten about the spilled grease until I was right on top of it, slipping, sliding, flailing, and eventually falling flat on my back, but not before I smashed my head directly upon the corner of the antique, oak tabletop.

When I awoke, the house was in shambles. The sun was up and the entire premises had been ransacked. All of the owner’s cards were gone. I felt awful, both from the weeping gash on the back of my skull and because of my abject failure as a house guardian. I clambered up from the still-greasy floor and saw the bottle of Xtra Milk by DedCool sitting where I had left it on the dining room table. I looked around at the disaster which I had been unable to prevent and then back at the fragrant elixir.

I left the house with my head down and my hands empty. I couldn’t, in good conscience, take the gift with me when I had failed to do my duty so catastrophically. I hope to one day make up for my malfeasance, but until I devise a way to do so, I shall refrain from enjoying the aromatic ecstasy which I surely do not yet deserve.

[soppingwethog]

Mediterranean Honeysuckle by Aerin

Please forgive me. I know this review may appear a bit sprawling, but I wanted to be able to present a full and accurate account and in order to do so, I felt it necessary to give a little bit of background information regarding my first experience with this particular perfume.

You see, this is not a fragrance I have ever worn. I know that might disqualify me as a reviewer in the eyes of some, but I can assure you that I do have experience with Mediterranean Honeysuckle by Aerin.

I’d like to start by telling you that I am in no way trying to boast about my good luck, but I must say that I have a wonderful and beautiful girlfriend whom I love and who loves me. She was kind enough to introduce me to this redolent solution. In fact, she was enveloped in a delicate cloud of this piquant fragrance when we first met.

I was working as an uncertified lifeguard at a public swimming pool and she was an avid swimmer. I noticed her immediately on my first day of employment. She was and is beautiful, graceful, kind, sweet, generous, and an outstanding swimmer. Of course, I knew that she was a million miles out of my league so I dared not approach her. I was more than happy to bask in the beatific glow which she radiated outward like some sort of benevolent sun.

About a month after I began working at the pool, she approached me and asked me my name which I somehow managed to tell her without vomiting with sheer joy. We had a brief and incredibly pleasant conversation about the pool and swimming and crossword puzzles. During our short exchange, I became aware of a gentle, intoxicating fragrance. I asked this living angel if she too smelled the indulgent aroma upon which my nostrils had supped and, with a smile I can only describe as being beyond the bounds of all previously-known loveliness, she said that she did indeed smell it and that it was her that I was smelling. I asked her from whence this smell originated and she told me that she had just applied a small splash of Mediterranean Honeysuckle by Aerin.

I couldn’t believe it and, really, I didn’t have time to believe it because at just that very moment, I heard a horrible scream come from the deep end of the pool. Without a thought, I bounded into the chlorinated water and swam as quickly as I could to the thrashing, screaming man. He really was moving about in quite a dangerous, terrifying manner. I did my best to secure him and swim him into the shallows, but with him being much larger and of a more vicious temperament, this proved to be exceedingly difficult.

I was eventually able to drag him to safety, but not without suffering many kicks, punches, and bites from the alarmed man. I can’t blame him. He was trying to save his own life and I know from experience that one will do whatever it takes to escape the gaping maw of the reaper.

With the help of two other poolgoers, I hoisted the wet man onto the solid earth where he continued to flail and strike out at me. I attempted to calm him. He was fighting and writhing so intensely that I was genuinely worried that he might flop back into the water where I would need to start the entire painful process again.

As I shushed him and tried to smooth his greasy, matted hair, he managed to thrust his index finger deep into my right eye. The pain was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. Not only was I immediately rendered blind, but it also caused me to tip backward and fall into the pool which I immediately and unintentionally befouled. I was eventually able to steady myself and bring my head above the water. I gasped for air and pleaded for assistance, but, understandably, nobody dared enter the pool which was now contaminated with my thin, oily waste.

The ethereal being who I had been speaking with just a few minutes prior to this calamity was kind enough to provide me with verbal instructions that guided me to the steps and out of the pool. She then, in an act of nearly-unbelievable benediction, took the time to hose me down and summon a medic who tended to my wounds.

It was incredibly embarrassing to know that such a lovely woman had seen me in such an enfeebled state, but were it not for this painful trial, we may have never begun to form the bonds that brought us together in the love and happiness that we share to this day.

[soppingwethog]

Amber Fragrance Oil by Nemat International

I am so sorry for what I have done. I have written a somewhat lengthy review for this fragrance, but I truly believe it is worth your time. I did my best to write an honest, transparent review and in order to do so, I felt it necessary to provide a little backstory about how I came to know of this unique, pungent syrup.

I originally discovered this evocative, aromatic sauce at my local reptile and amphibian distribution warehouse. I had visited this particular warehouse dozens of times before. You see, this is where I purchased much of my protein. People may stick their noses up at the idea of eating lizard eggs and frog meat, but it’s good, healthy stuff and it tastes good too if you know how to cook it.

The owner of the warehouse was an aged woman who I will refer to as Ms. Gulch as that is her name and I would feel disrespectful were I to come up with a pseudonym for her without her permission and it is unlikely that I shall ever be able to obtain her permission as she sadly passed on several years ago when she was inflated to death.

Ms. Gulch was a kindly old woman who was generous and sweet. I can’t tell you how many times she gave me screaming deals on a gross of lizard eggs because they were just a few days beyond their recommended selling deadline. Over time, the two of us developed a friendly rapport and, eventually, our relationship became physical.

We would make love in the cold, dark lizard warehouse. It was very nice although it was a bit unsanitary and led to each of us developing some nasty infections from time to time. Regardless, those were some of the wettest, most enjoyable months of my life. But alas, it all came to an end when one spring evening I came into the warehouse to purchase a bag of newts for dinner.

After I had completed my purchase, Ms. Gulch suggested that we make unprotected love near the tadpole pond and I immediately consented. While we were grunting and squealing and splashing around with the juvenile toads, I noticed that the lovely Ms. Gulch smelled a bit different than she normally did. She generally reeked of sweat and cooking grease and lizard droppings, but now she smelled of something more refined, something more intentional. After we finished rocking each other’s worlds, I asked her about it and she told me without shame or hesitation that what I was smelling was likely the leftover aroma of another man she had squatted upon just two hours earlier in that very same tadpole pond.

I tried my best to remain stoic and seem detached and unbothered, but truth be told, I felt the all-too-familiar pang of jealousy rise up within my loins when she told me. I felt as though I had to leave her. I thanked her for the meat and returned home where I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said. I won’t go into all of the awful details, but I will admit that I began spending a significant amount of time in and around the warehouse. I kept tabs on who went in and out, how long they were inside, and how frequently they visited.

It wasn’t long before I deduced who my rival was. It was none other than Harold Girth, a brilliant, brawny man who I knew I could never best in any feat of strength or intelligence. Understanding that I was no match for him, I waited for an opportune moment when I could catch them in the coital act and observe his techniques with the goal of applying them to my own method. Unfortunately, things did not go as planned.

After a few minutes of watching them from a concealed location behind a barrel of geckos, Harold spotted me, looked me straight in the eyes as he finished bringing Ms. Gulch to completion, wiped his mouth, stood up, walked over to me, and gave me a thrashing I will remember until my final breath. It was a brutal, humiliating event, but I will never forget picking up on the subtleties of the fragrance he was wearing as he repeatedly smashed my head into the cold cement floor. The smell, Ms. Gulch later told me, was Amber Fragrance Oil by Nemat International.

[soppingwethog]

Warm Bulb by Clue Perfumery

I’m sorry. I really am. I hate to take up so much space on this wonderful webpage, but I feel that it is my duty to provide an honest, transparent review and doing so requires that I give a little background information regarding the first time I came across this singular, potent juice.

When I was younger, I collected hundreds of oak galls over a period of several years. If you’re not familiar with these arborous anomalies, they are spherical growths that can occasionally be found on oak trees. I won’t go into all of the slimy details about their formation, but I will say that wasps and chemicals are involved.

As a youngster, I found these galls alluring unlike any other naturally occurring orb. They captured my imagination and, in return, I captured them and kept my specimens in a disused dumpster which I found behind a burned out restaurant which was down the street from where I used to live. I never did get an exact count of all of my galls, but I can assure you that it was well over three hundred at one point.

I was quite proud of my collection and would often try to impress my schoolmates by showing them my hidden bounty. Unfortunately, I was often met with ridicule and scorn and more than once did I find myself being tossed into my dumpster full of galls by a particularly ornery classmate who had found my incessant gall-based boasts to be distasteful. I shan't blame them for their actions. After all, we were only children and I am deeply irritating most of the time.

Sometimes, after having been bludgeoned about and thrown into the gall dumpster, I would sit quietly inside and wait for the one who had tossed me to tire themselves out by laughing at my expense and then leave so that I could escape without any further thrashings. If it was an exceptionally warm day, the interior of the dumpster would take on a very unique, comforting odor. It never smelled like rubbish or garbage inside. I had spent three whole weeks carefully scrubbing and sanitizing the interior of that steel receptacle before I dared placing my first gall within its hungry jaws.

The smell was indescribable, but I will do my best to describe it to you now. It smelled like a very warm metal container filled with oak galls, both old and new. If you do not know what that smells like, then I highly recommend purchasing yourself a dumpster, filling it with galls during the warmer months, climbing inside, and taking a big, hearty whiff. It’s really something.

I was recently in my hometown and I attempted to visit the crumbling remains of the restaurant where I had spent so much time as a child only to find that it had been completely razed. This saddened me to no end, but miraculously, I was able to find the storied dumpster of my youth which had been nearly overgrown with brambles and tall grasses. I had an intense urge to get inside and see if any of my precious galls remained.

Unfortunately, I was unable to do so because as I was tearing the thorny vines from the exterior of this sacred tomb, an armed security officer clubbed the top of my head with what I assume was an improvised sort of nightstick. I collapsed and let out a mournful wail. The security guard told me to remain motionless and I did not disobey his command. Through my tears and over my sobs, I was able to make out that he was radioing for backup. I asked him why he had hit me but he did not reply. I attempted to stand, but I found that I was unable to support myself.

Upon seeing me try to get up from the tangled mass of brambles into which I had collapsed, the guard again brought his club down onto my brain box, splitting it open and leaving me in a state of horrible darkness and silence.

I was finally roused from my cudgel-induced sleep when a full bucket of filthy mop water was dumped onto my head and into my mouth. Choking, gasping, disoriented, and in extreme anguish, I begged for my assailant to stop drowning me. After a few minutes, I was able to right myself and I saw that I was still on the ground in the decrepit lot of the demolished restaurant. There was nobody near me. My hands were bound behind my back with a great mass of looped brambles which I was able to loosen only after a great deal of effort.

It was evening as I stumbled toward my hotel. Upon entering the lobby, I heard a woman gasp and then shriek. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I looked quite dreadful and I don’t blame the woman for reacting as she did when accosted with my wretched visage. I turned to her and apologized, but she just screamed and screamed. I took a step toward her as I hoped I might be able to explain how I came to look as I did, but she quickly turned and ran out of the building, dropping her purse in the process. I picked up her purse and attempted to chase after her so that I might return it to her, but my throbbing head and trembling legs prevented me from doing so.

As I reentered the hotel, I too dropped the long gone woman’s purse and, unfortunately, I heard something shatter. I picked up the purse and peered in to find a broken bottle of Warm Bulb by Clue Perfumery. Knowing what sort of luck I often have, I did not want to keep the purse in my possession lest some constable accuse me of assaulting and robbing the poor woman to whom it belonged so I quickly turned it over to the front desk staff at the hotel.

As I did so, I somehow managed to get some of this intensely odorous elixir into the many bleeding gashes on my hand. I rushed to my room and washed the burning fluid from my sores. As of now, I am not able to provide an exhaustive account of how it smelled, but I can assure you that it is extremely painful to get Warm Bulb by Clue Perfumery into any sort of gaping wound.

[soppingwethog]

Not A Perfume by Juliette Has A Gun

I am terribly sorry. I don’t mean to take up too much of your time, but I do believe that providing a thoughtful, careful review of this fragrance is required to do it justice. As such, it feels necessary that I give a little bit of background information concerning my first experience with this particular perfume. I hope you can forgive me.

About six hundred minutes ago, I found myself waiting in an exceptionally long line. I was in a city several hours from my home and I had travelled here with the express purpose of attending an evening performance of musical songs by a somewhat well-known performer whose name I will not be listing in this review as I do not know how to spell it properly.

I intended to arrive at the performance venue almost a full twenty-four hours before the scheduled opening of the doors, but alas, I was delayed by many infuriating events that I shall not bore you with right now. I will simply say that I was mistaken for not one, but two different bank robbers all because of my sense of fashion and style. Needless to say, it took up a great deal of my time and caused me to arrive at my destination much later than I had desired.

When I finally did arrive, I found, much to my dismay, that a line of like-minded concertgoers had been forming long before my arrival and thus there was little chance of me securing a seat anywhere near the stage where the performers would be performing. This infuriated me to no end, but I quickly realized that there was nothing to be done about it so I solemnly took my place at the very end of the queue and did my best not to vomit with frustration.

I checked my wristwatch in an attempt to ascertain how much more time I would need to stand motionless surrounded by hungry, rude strangers when I noticed that it had stopped. I can’t say for certain, but I assume that it must have been damaged during the two tacklings I had received by bank security officers earlier in the day. This upset me even more. This was a watch that I have owned for many years. It was gifted to me by a man I had the pleasure of working for on a small farm some time ago. It was a special watch and not one that I wore with any regularity. I saved it for special events like concerts or ribbon cuttings and it upset me to no end that it was now inoperable.

The longer I waited in line, the angrier I felt. Nothing was going as I had hoped. I did my best to calm myself. I like to think that I was able to internalize my violent rage and that nobody near me was any the wiser about the horrible fury which thundered in my bones, but I soon learned that this was not the case when a bearded, hulking gentleman standing directly behind me tapped on my shoulder and asked if I was alright. I told him that I had no idea what he was talking about and turned back around, even angrier than before. Then, I heard him say that he was only asking because my body was shaking so intensely.

I hadn’t noticed that I was trembling until he said something about it, but I then quickly realized that I was shivering like a sick horse. My entire body was tensed with displeasure. I looked down and saw that I had sweated through my trousers and that my hands were balled into tight fists. I loosened my fingers and blood immediately started pouring from my palms where I had unconsciously dug out great scoops of flesh with my fingernails.

It’s amazing what the body can do without you noticing when you are extremely annoyed. This wasn’t the first time I had inadvertently torn open the palms of my hands, but it was certainly the most severe. In my embarrassment, I quickly stuffed my bleeding hands into my trouser pockets, but the thin cotton was no match for the great quantities of blood which weeped forth from my self-inflicted palm gouges.

I began feeling faint. I turned to the bearded man behind me to apologize for being so curt and to ask if he had the time. That is when I must have fainted. Luckily, I fainted right into his hairy, muscled arms and was quickly revived when he splashed my face with cool, clear water. My luck continued when he, still cradling me in his exquisitely strong arms, bandaged my unsightly hand gashes and fed me a bag of shrimp that he happened to have in his backpack. He said that it was his favorite concert snack. I was in no shape to argue with that.

He was kind enough to chaperone me into the venue and spend the entire concert by my side, ensuring that I was alright and singing the performer’s most popular songs with me. On top of that, he smelled of a truly intoxicating fragrance. I asked him what it was that he was wearing during a break between songs and he removed from his trousers a small white bottle of Not A Perfume by Juliette Has A Gun. “What a confounding name,” I thought. He thrust the warmed bottle into my wounded hands and said that I could keep it. I was delighted. I couldn’t believe that such a difficult day had turned into such a magical night.

Unfortunately, my luck ran out when, after the concert ended, he asked if I could loan him the tidy sum of fifteen hundred dollars. I explained to him that I did not own that many dollars and it was unlikely that I ever would, but it was no use. He was irate and showed his dissatisfaction by punching me nearly to death. He then left me on the sidewalk in front of the concert venue, wet, exhausted, and with a broken bottle of perfume in my blood-soaked trouser pocket.

[soppingwethog]

Milk by DedCool

I’m sorry. I understand that this might be a bit longer than the standard fragrance review, but I hope that my humble words might help inform those of you who are interested in, and have questions about this particular pungent concoction. I feel that it’s important to explain my initial experience with this unique perfume.

Almost exactly two years ago, I found myself in a location that was completely new and unfamiliar to me. I had been hitchhiking eastward and had been dropped off in a town the name of which I can no longer recall. It was in the state of Utah. Of this I am nearly certain. It was summer and the sun was unrelenting in its mission to warm me. Most of my waking hours during those months of wandering were spent dehydrated, filthy, and smelling like something that had been dredged up from some ruined bog. On the morning of the day in question, I had received a ride from a nearly-silent farmer. He had been kind enough to allow me to accompany him some two hundred miles down the interstate and for this, I was extremely thankful.

After some hours of driving, he pulled his truck into the parking lot of a filling station and went inside. I quickly exited the vehicle after him and followed him inside where I was immediately drawn to a row of glass doors toward the rear of the building which contained a multitude of colorful beverages of all sizes, flavors, and potencies. I carefully examined each shelf and eventually found a drink that I deemed worthy to touch my sticky, chapped lips. If I remember correctly, it was a glass bottle of something called Shuck Juice. It was a corn flavored beverage and boy was it thick. I had to eat it as much as drink it, but it sated my angry thirst and the lingering corn aftertaste was not at all unpleasant.

I had imbibed this viscous fluid while standing in front of the open cooler door. I know that this is not the most polite thing to do, but I was so terribly hot and the unending cool breath of the heavily conditioned air within the beverage cooler felt refreshing and curative. I must have fallen into a bit of a daze while sipping my thick corn porridge in that artificially cooled environment, for I momentarily failed to notice the commotion near the front of the store. I was quickly brought out of my stupor when I heard a man scream.

I turned around to find a kindly farmer, the same who had driven me so far that very morning, pinned to the floor. A masked gunman had him underfoot as he shouted obscenities at the woman behind the counter. I was dumbstruck. I stood motionless for what felt like a great deal of time as I watched the poor, trembling woman try her best to open the cash register for the belligerent man. All the while, he shouted and cussed and waved his gun in the air.

I had managed to remain unseen by the masked assailant until this time, but, as luck would have it, I just then let out a long, greasy fart which immediately attracted the attention of the robber as well as the frantic cashier. Even the farmer lifted his head from the floor to search for the source of the wretched cackling that I had unintentionally let slip from my road-weary hole. I truly believe that ‘twas Father Fear himself who had wrung the stink from my wretched innards.

The gunman immediately rushed toward me, shouting, arms flailing, looking very menacing indeed. I am not ashamed to admit that I was terrified. I thought that my life would quickly be coming to an end.

When he reached me, he violently slapped the empty bottle of Shuck Juice out of my hand, smashing it to bits. I later found out that he cut himself quite badly in the process. He then wasted no time in bringing the butt of his pistol down onto the top of my head. Everything went white and then black. When I was finally revived by medics a few hours later, it was in no small part thanks to Milk by DedCool.

The chief medic onsite was kind enough to later explain to me that she had attempted to revive me with the time-tested method of a bit of cotton wadding saturated with spirits of hartshorn, but this proved ineffective. She then tried clapping loudly in front of my face, tickling me, and even kissing me on the lips, but all of these methods were to no avail.

Finally, as a last resort, she took from her satchel a small vial of Milk by DedCool, doused her wafting rag with a heavy splash from the bottle, and presented it to my bloodied nostrils. This did the trick. In a matter of seconds I was awakened to a world of truly unspeakable pain. At first, I cursed her for rousing me into consciousness where I was forced to experience the resultant searing ache of a brutal pistol-whipping, but I suppose it was better to have been revived than to have been left to rot on the wet floor in that filling station in Utah.

I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that this piquant fragrance helped save my life.

[soppingwethog]

Sale e Pepe by Hilde Soliani

I am very sorry about this, but this review may seem a bit long-winded. I hope that the thorough, comprehensive details I provide regarding my initial experience with this odorous liquid will be illuminating and helpful for all who choose to read it. I truly believe that everything I have included in this missive is essential and descriptive.

Eight days ago I experienced a significant stroke of luck and found myself in possession of a brand new automobile. This automobile was not and never will be mine. It was loaned to me by a gentleman whose name I will not include in these paragraphs for I do not deem it appropriate. I will simply say that he loaned me his vehicle for a period of no longer than three hours and for this, I am thankful.

As I mentioned, the car was, and still is, brand new. I had never been in such a vehicle. It was exciting and exhilarating. It was so terrifically clean inside. I was actually afraid to soil the carpets so I took off my shoes upon entering. I rested them in my lap as I drove. I felt a bit foolish about this, but I thought it was better to be safe than to be sorry.

I won’t get into the details about why I borrowed this vehicle. I already gave a brief overview of my car troubles in my review for Molecule 01 + Iris by Escentric Molecules. I will just say that I am currently without my own vehicle due to a significant misunderstanding between myself and the local municipality.

The person who allowed me to borrow his brand new vehicle is a seemingly well-to-do elderly gentleman who I sometimes shave for a modest fee. Mind you, shaving this man isn’t my main source of income, but every little bit helps these days so I report to his quarters thrice weekly to give him a thorough, full-body shave. He likes to be smooth from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and I spend a good two hours each session ensuring that he is utterly hair free.

After our last shaving session, I explained to him the difficulty I am currently experiencing with my vehicle, and without even needing to grovel and beg for the use of one of his many automobiles, he offered to lend me the use of one that very day. I was delighted. I thanked him profusely. I finished shaving his body as quickly as I could without risking any chance of slicing him open and I then set off to his garage to find the foretold car.

I found it where he promised it would be. The onsite mechanic gave me a cursory explanation about how the digital displays worked and soon I was on the road, enjoying the feeling of being sublimely mobile once again. As the vehicle was on loan to me for a period of three hours, I decided to take the circuitous route to my destination. I drove along the river and looked at the slow moving water. I breathed the fresh, vernal aromas that wafted in and out of the car’s open windows. I enjoyed the sunshine and clear sky. It was a beautiful day for driving, if I do say so myself.

It was at this time that I felt something under my unshod left foot. While stopped at a stop sign, I examined the floorboard and found that my foot had been resting on a small glass container. I leaned down and retrieved the cool glass cylinder. I examined the label on it and found it to be a nearly-full bottle of Sale e Pepe by Hilde Soliani. Although I was, at that time, unfamiliar with this unique, fragrant tincture, I was immediately enthralled. In fact, I’m afraid I may have been a bit too enthralled.

I hadn’t realized how long I had been stopped at the stop sign while I examined this bottle of fragrant serum and as a result, a good deal of vehicles were at a standstill behind me. Strangely, none of the motorists honked, or, if they did, I was too enchanted by my new discovery to notice.

Just as I removed the cap and was about to douse myself in this undoubtedly potent elixir, a musclebound arm reached through the open driver’s side window, grabbed the back of my head, and smashed it directly into the steering wheel, shattering my nose and leaving me utterly stupefied.

I eventually managed to open the vehicle door and crawl out onto the macadam, where, to my dismay, I saw the many shards of the bottle of Sale e Pepe by Hilde Soliani spread out in a dazzling array on the filthy ground. I must have dropped it onto my lap and it must have fallen to the ground as I exited the vehicle. It is a loss that I will not soon forget. That is for certain.

[soppingwethog]

Molecule 05 by Escentric Molecules

I’m sorry, but I feel compelled to provide you, my audience, with a bit of background information about my first experience with this alluring, potent perfume. I’ll try to keep it brief, but I do believe that the details I provide may help more clearly explain this one-of-a-kind fragrance.

When I was nineteen years old, I was engaged to be married. This was not a marriage of love. No, it was anything but. My great-grand aunt had arranged this union betwixt myself and a miserable wretch who I will call Gurnip because that is their name.

Gurnip was my great-grand aunt’s neighbor’s only surviving child. My aunt had taken Gurnip into her care after her parents had jumped into an active volcano. I never did uncover all of the details about their strange deaths, but from what I can tell, it was a sort of sex fetish or something. Whatever the cause of their consensual plunge into one of the earth’s hottest orifices, the two lovers perished in a splash of liquid rock and left their only offspring, the horrible Gurnip, in my great-grand aunt’s care.

The two dissolved freaks had left meticulous instructions for Gurnip’s upbringing and, my great-grand aunt being the person she was, she felt compelled to follow their detailed rules as best she could. This meant that Gurnip was homeschooled, not allowed to wear makeup or eat baked goods, and was to be married to me on her twentieth birthday.

I will keep this as short as I can and spare you the awful details of how I tried my best to escape from this marriage. I won’t go on and on about how I stole a boat and attempted to sail for Christmas Island. I’ll skip the part where I faked my own death. I won’t bore you with the tales of adventure I faced on the high seas.

Instead, I’ll simply say that I was eventually captured and brought back to the mainland where my betrothed sat waiting for me. I had given up hope. I knew that I would, from that day on, be forever entwined with the truly awful Gurnip. My life was over. I felt a deep, all-consuming sadness within me.

As I marched down the aisle toward the altar, I felt as though I might faint but I somehow managed to keep my wits about me. I choked back my tears of utter sadness and waited for Gurnip to join me and ruin my life forever. I stood there for what felt like several minutes. The church was silent. There was no music. There were hardly any attendees.

After some time, the officiant lost his temper and walked up the aisle to try and find Gurnip. As he passed me, I found myself enrobed in a unique, potent odor the likes of which I had never experienced before. I chased after him as he exited the church and, after catching him, I asked what it was that I had smelled. With a soft, gentle smile he turned to me and told me that it was none other than Molecule 05 by Escentric Molecules. I thanked him for this information and the two of us decided to split up and search for Gurnip. I soon found her near a bush. She had been almost entirely devoured by seagulls.