Perfume

02. July, 2008 | by John Moroney

Fucking Christ Jesus cat humping Hell! What in God’s name was that horrible woman THINKING?

True story: last night I was safely tucked away in my restaurant, caring for my beloved guests when SHE walked in. Don’t tell me you don’t know—you know! That horrendous woman without a shred of olfactory senses left in her body, the one who CANNOT SMELL HER OWN PERFUME.

Dear God! She would speak, and the motion of her words in the air would carry World War One to me on her breath, only instead of the despicable mustard gas, it was a cloud of sweet violet and lavender.

(I really, really fucking hate lavender, by the way. Some cheap-assed ditchweed that happens to be attractive to those who can’t afford real flowers. It smells like the acid burning of a rose as part of some Spanish Inquisition torture—a torture designed to corrupt the flesh of Jews and Muslims until they allow themselves the sweet release of death. Large corporations love lavender because it’s cheap and hides the smell of tiny Chinese children manufacturing their products.)

As the brutal toxin entered my skin, it started a hideous chemical reaction with all the hideous chemicals I routinely bathe my body in: a burn, a slow painful burn dedicated to Death. I excused myself and ran to the bathroom to wash, but no matter how much soap and water I applied, the burn lingered. Dump bleach mixed with fiberglass and lemons on your arms, then wait five hours—that’s what it felt like.

Next came the tightening of the throat and restriction of the airways. I could feel my lungs giving up their fight as the bronchial tubes inflamed and choked the very life out of the blood vessels. The wheezing was audible to everyone but the INFERNAL CREATURE in the center of poison cloud of agony. I began to choke, but was unable to spit the taste of cloying sexual desperation out of my mouth. I choked until the point of vomiting. She could have just forced me to have oral sex with a bottle of laundry detergent; she still would have gotten her domination thrills, and I would have suffered less.

Oh, and the tears! Have I mentioned the tears? My eyes began to itch like burlap on a delicate sexual organ. The water flowed, and then it was mucus, and then straight blood, blood I can barely afford to lose from a body that functions without a feeling heart.

Finally she asked for a cab. TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, it finally showed. And this is the point of the story: please picket and boycott Yellow Cab Seattle for not showing up in three minutes like they said they would. Perhaps a riot might be in order.

Just saying.