Sopping Wet Hog

Honest perfume reviews for the discerning nose

[soppingwethog]

Good Morning by Jusbox

I am terribly sorry. I really am. Nothing pains me more than taking up a greater quantity of time and space than should be allotted to one person, and I truly hope I am not doing that now. Yes, this humble review is a good deal longer than most others, but if I were to shorten it any further than I already have, I believe it would be utterly useless. I have carefully considered the following words, and after lengthy deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that each and every one of them is necessary to provide a robust review of this unique, aromatic elixir.

There was a period of time three years ago during which I was unemployed, with little to fill my days. At first, I found this quite enjoyable. I have spent much of my waking life toiling for the enrichment of others who are significantly more wealthy than I, so it felt nice to be able to spend my time as I pleased, doing as much or as little as suited my current appetite.

I would often spend cool mornings ambling hither and yon, traversing the boulevards of the neighborhood in which I lived, looking into the windows of shops, admiring the warm, inviting smells of cafes and bakeries, and sometimes sitting on a well-worn bench near a small pond in a verdant park.

I will admit that I would occasionally lose myself in delicious daydreams during these delightful detours. I know that it is not at all polite to become unaware of one’s surroundings while on a public thoroughfare, but nevertheless, I would periodically find myself in unfamiliar areas without any recollection of having walked there. This was usually not a problem. I could wander as much as I pleased, paying little attention to where I was going, and instead, feasting my senses on the simple pleasures that surrounded me. Unfortunately, my selfish reveries did get me into a bit of trouble from time to time.

While admiring the sights and sounds of splashing waterfowl as I passed a small yet lively pond, I was struck by an oncoming jogger. I am still uncertain of precisely what happened. I assume that I walked off of my designated lane of the sidewalk and onto the other side, but it is impossible to say for sure. What I do know without a doubt is that the jogger, who was much more sturdily built than I, knocked me to the ground.

Rather than stop to ask if I had been harmed, the man simply continued on his jog, but not before letting fly a great gob of sputum in my direction. Thankfully, he had trouble aiming his wet missile, and I was able to avoid the incredibly insulting embarrassment of having to wipe a stranger’s mucus from my face and body while lying on the filthy sidewalk.

Once I was able to do so, I picked myself up and chased after the shirtless, exercising man who had so rudely clobbered and spat at me. I am generally not one to do such a thing, but I was so upset at the time that I felt compelled to catch up to the stranger to allow him the opportunity to beg my pardon. Of course, I planned to offer him my forgiveness once he had done so. After all, the collision may very well have been at least partially my fault.

After a good deal of running, I reached the man. He had not slowed down, and I believe my sudden appearance by his side frightened him a bit. With a look of surprise and disgust, he stopped his jogging, removed the headphones from his ears, and slapped me across the face with incredible force. I stood there, bewildered, holding my quickly reddening cheek, as my eyes filled with tears. I asked the man why he had done this. I wiped the tears from my eyes, and with a trembling voice, told him that I would not stand for such treatment. I demanded that he apologize for his unacceptable behavior, for knocking me down, spitting toward me, and slapping my one and only face.

It was then that he, with seemingly no effort, lifted me off of the ground, carried me across the street, and threw me into a large, marble fountain which sat in front of a towering municipal building. He once again spat at me, turned, and continued on his jog. I was dumbfounded.

I sat in the fountain for some time until a security guard approached me, telling me that I would need to leave. I tried to explain what had happened, but he quickly stopped me and said that he had watched the entire scene unfold. I asked him why he hadn’t attempted to intercede, but he simply repeated that I must leave immediately unless I wished for him to contact law enforcement. With this, I stood and began my long, damp journey home.

This awful incident stuck with me for quite some time. I would often wake up in the middle of the night, screaming, thrashing about, feeling as if I were being carried toward the fountain by the monstrous jogger. These nightmares continued for months. It wasn’t until nearly a year later that, by pure accident, I came upon Good Morning by Jusbox in a perfume seller’s shop. Upon removing the cap and smelling this redolent fragrance, I was transported. I was immediately reminded of the smell and feeling of sitting in the cool, clear fountain water on that fateful summer morning.

It may seem counterintuitive to want to envelop one’s self in something that reminds one of such an awful time, but I felt that doing so might help conquer my incessant nightmares and flashbacks. I asked the shop’s owner if I might purchase a full bottle of this intriguing brew. She confirmed that there were several in stock. She left me and returned a moment later with the attractive bottle in hand. It was then that I remembered that I had been mugged at gunpoint just twenty minutes prior, and as such, I was then without my billfold.

With great embarrassment, I apologized and left the shop empty handed. Even after I had replaced my bank cards and purse, I never did return to purchase the bottle of Good Morning by Jusbox. You see, the nightmares had stopped. It only took a single sniff to bring me back to that awful moment, and in doing so, vanquish the painful memory which had been haunting me.

The odor was the cure, and for that, I am sincerely thankful.

[soppingwethog]

Buonissimo by Hilde Soliani

I am terribly sorry. I really am. I do my best to provide concise, honest reviews, and while this review is most certainly honest, I know that it is a bit longer than some might like. However, I feel that it is important, nay, critical that I include a few simple details about the circumstances surrounding my first encounter with this fragrant concoction. Omitting this background information would be unfair to those looking for a truthful, unbiased, educative review.

Last year, I took a short trip for the purposes of leisure and relaxation. I embarked on this voyage without a companion. I felt the need to isolate myself in unfamiliar surroundings, something I do from time to time in an attempt to lessen the near-constant ache of the monotony of everyday life.

I purchased myself a train ticket and set off toward the coast on a Thursday morning. The train ride was pleasant enough. I had indulged, perhaps a bit more sumptuously than I should have, on a private roomette car, which I found pleasant, if not a bit cramped. I have traveled by rail many times throughout my life, but never in such comfort. This was a great deal more luxurious than the boxcars of my youth.

The passage took just over twenty-four hours. I filled my time by enjoying the scenery from the train’s observation car, reading, and savouring the carefully made comestibles that I had prepared for myself before leaving home. It felt very nice to travel in this way. It was a fine start to a trip that I will certainly never forget.

Once I reached my destination, a small fishing village, the name of which I will not be stating for reasons that I will not be explaining, I enjoyed a short, brisk walk from the train depot to the seaside hotel at which I had reserved a room for two nights. To my great surprise, the check-in process went smoothly. I was not told that my room had been double-booked or that there had recently been a fire which had destroyed that portion of the hotel. Instead, I found myself interacting with competent staff in a clean, strangely empty hotel.

I had not expected the area to be overrun with tourists, as it was far from the peak season, and this particular little town is not often seen as a prized holiday destination, but I did find it curious that so few people, locals or visitors, appeared to be inhabiting the area. When I questioned the front desk staff about the seemingly deserted state of things, they too said that they were surprised. The only kernel of wisdom I gleaned from our conversation was hidden inside of an offhand remark about how the fishing for the species for which the area is known had not been particularly bountiful as of late.

I paid this little mind. Although I had planned on fishing, I do not consider myself a serious angler, and I am generally satisfied to simply sit near the roiling froth of the sea and revel in the crisp, briny air, fish or no fish.

After depositing my belongings in my room, I spent much of the remainder of the day walking up and down a particularly desolate stretch of beach. I passed no more than three people during my four hours of rambling, and this suited me just fine. I quickly became accustomed to the idea that I would have the area to myself. I slept exceptionally well that evening, and the following morning, I gorged myself on a fine breakfast in a tiny restaurant just a few blocks from the hotel.

I was the only patron in the establishment during my meal. I asked the cook, who also acted as the server, busser, and host, what they thought about the lack of people. With absolutely no expression of any kind on his grizzled face, he explained that it didn’t matter much to him if people were around or not. I found this peculiar, but thought it best not to pry. Instead, I asked if he had any idea what might be causing the emptiness of the town. He mumbled something or other about the good fish being gone and the bad fish taking their place. He then left and returned to the kitchen. I didn’t know what to make of this so I simply made nothing of it at all.

After breakfast, I gathered my meagre fishing gear and headed toward the beach where, again, I was nearly alone for much of the day. At first, the fishing was quite slow. I do not pretend to be any sort of exceptional hunter or gatherer, but I was quite perplexed not to have felt even the slightest nibble on my line after three hours of careful casting and retrieving.

In the early afternoon, the tide changed, and with it, my luck. I soon found myself reeling in fish after fish, each longer and thicker than the last. In no time at all, I had six very large, strange looking fish thrashing about in a hole that I had dug in the sand. These slippery beasts were far too large to house in the bucket I had brought with me, so instead, I dug a hole and carefully set the suffocating fish in the wet depression while I continued my fishing.

After catching and dispatching six significant sea creatures, I realized that I had neither the room nor the upper body strength to carry any additional animals back to the hotel where I would process them. This meant that the other eighteen fish I caught that afternoon were returned with a quick toss into the dark, watery depths from whence they originated.

When I arrived at the hotel, I asked the front desk clerk if it might be possible to hire a member of the kitchen staff to clean and fillet my bounty. The young woman left me and went to the kitchen. She reappeared a few minutes later to inform me that there was indeed a member of the staff who was ready and willing to help me process my many bizarre fish. I left my sodden treasure with her and informed her that I would be down in an hour’s time to retrieve my meat. With that, I left.

I took a much needed bath, shaved, dressed, and returned to the front desk to find a neatly packaged bundle of long fish fillets. I thanked the front desk attendant and asked that she give my thanks to the masterful butcher who had made such short work of my catch. I paid for the services rendered and returned to my room with my heavy bag of flesh in tow. The following hour was spent carefully slicing and arranging two of the monstrous fillets. After catching such an incredible haul, I decided that I would reward myself with an evening of homemade, or should I say hotelmade, sashimi.

I took my time preparing my feast. I had brought with me wasabi and soy sauce. I intended to have a simple, yet satisfying meal in my hotel room by the sea. When my work was finished, I was pleased to see the veritable bevy of raw, sliced fish arranged handsomely atop the bed. I was dreadfully hungry after such a long day fishing, and I gobbled down every last morsel of the rich, unctuous fish in no time. If I had to guess, I would say that I consumed just over a kilogram of raw flesh that evening.

I’ll spare you most of the details of what followed, but after my dinner, I spent the rest of that night, and much of the next day, in true agony. I later learned that the fish I had caught and devoured was none other than the fabled Ruvettus pretiosus, or oilfish, as it is more commonly called. Had I known a bit more about this particular species, I would have never dared taste its cursed flesh.

For those who are not aware, let me take a moment to inform you that the oilfish, a type of snake mackerel, contains dangerously high levels of wax esters, which, of course, the human digestive system cannot efficiently process. In short, consumption of this fish often has a severe purgative effect which is known as keriorrhea. This horrible affliction causes sour, orange liquid to transude from one’s bowels, and in my case, this rank, oily discharge was exceptionally painful to excrete and worryingly vast in quantity.

I quickly found that the hotel’s plumbing was woefully ill-equipped to handle that much fish wax, so I was left with a debilitating stomachache and no toilet to use once the pipes were thoroughly blocked with my ductile stool. I hate to admit this, but I had to resort to filling the tub with my greasy secretions, and fill it I did. By morning, the bathtub was nearly overflowing with my horrible manure, and I was utterly exhausted from trying to keep my head above the ever-rising muckline. Thankfully, I had just enough energy to crawl out of the bathtub and into the bedroom where I telephoned the front desk. They quickly came to my aid.

They carried me to another room where they hosed me down and scrubbed my stained skin with harsh soaps and solvents. I wept with thanks for their kindness and care as they dressed me and fed me spoonfuls of mild broth. With their help, I eventually regained enough strength to walk, and, miraculously, I made it to the station in time to catch my train home.

As I climbed aboard the train, the young hotel worker, who had so expertly attended to me in my hour of need, reached out their hand and gave me a small parcel. They said that it might help cover up the malodorous memory of the prior evening. I thanked her and made my way to the private roomette where I quickly fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

When I awoke, I found that I was nearly home. I was feeling quite a bit better after having slept. I thought of the whole ordeal that I had been through with disgust and gratitude. I was disgusted at what that awful fish had done to my innards, and what my awful innards had done to that hotel bathroom, and I was grateful for the kindness, care, and compassion that I had received at the hands of strangers.

It was then that I remembered the gift I had been given when boarding the train. I rummaged through my belongings and eventually located the small box. I opened it and saw the slim, unmistakable bottle of Buonissimo by Hilde Soliani. I was delighted. This fragrance was just the thing to eliminate the foul remembrance of my encounter with the dreaded oilfish. I leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and sprayed the atomizer directly onto my face several times until my skin felt thoroughly saturated with the potent elixir.

[soppingwethog]

Missing Person by Phlur

Rather than begin this review with my opinions and impressions of this storied fragrance, I would instead like to issue a formal apology to all who read the following text. I’m sorry. I apologize for the length of this review. I do not wish to take up any more of your valuable time than is absolutely necessary, and I truly believe that the paragraphs below are indeed essential as they contain specific details regarding my first real experience with this redolent fluid. I did what I could to truncate my writing, but even after doing so, I understand that this review is quite a bit longer than most. I hope you can forgive me, and more importantly, I hope that I will one day be able to forgive myself.

A small number of years ago, I was under the employ of a local ombudsman. Now, if I am being perfectly frank, which I am, this job was not strictly legal. You see, I was not an official member of his staff. I did not receive a standard paycheque. I did not report my income to the appropriate governing bodies. Instead, I was paid the equivalent of what I then considered a satisfactory salary in the form of various gift cards in exchange for running errands and doing odd jobs for the aforementioned ombudsman.

Many of these duties were as simple as picking up laundered garments from his preferred dry cleaning establishment or preparing a sumptuous pancake feast for him and his two daughters. However, some of the chores with which I was tasked proved to be beyond what any reasonable person might consider appropriate. I am sure that many of you, had you been asked to carry out some of the more outlandish jobs, would have refused, but being in the financial situation that I was at that time, I had no ability to turn down any sort of paid work.

This meant that I would occasionally find myself in some less than savory situations. One such example was when my employer asked me ever so kindly to deliver an exceptionally nondescript package from his home to a man he referred to as Tance who inhabited a shipping container that had been retrofitted to resemble a small home.

It was early spring and the field in which his abode was situated was thoroughly muddied and, as there was nothing resembling a road within a kilometer of his home, I found myself wading through the thick, sticky muck. It was quite the task to tread through the water-logged waste, but I knew that I would not earn my pay without completing the ombudsman’s errand, so I did what I could to make quick work of the trek.

When I reached the shipping container, I was greeted by Tance, who was, in my humble opinion, an extraordinarily handsome man. He stood tall and broad-shouldered, shirtless, and as beautiful as Adonis himself. I presented him the package that I had carefully carried across the mire, and he accepted it with alacrity. I tried to explain who I was, and from whence the parcel originated, but he silenced me with a delicate wave of his hand and an all-too-brief smile. My heart was warmed. It felt good to be in the presence of such an exceptionally beautiful being.

Tance invited me into his mysterious shipping container home. At first, I thought it best to refuse his kindness and start marching back toward the ombudsman’s villa to report that I had completed the task as he had instructed me, but, against what I know now to be my better judgement, I instead accepted Tance’s invitation and stepped into his small, but very tidy home. He offered me a seat and explained in exquisite detail the work he had put into his residence. I am generally not interested in carpentry, construction, or interior design, but the charm and grace with which Tance spoke of these subjects, and the nearly-tangible passion he put into his soliloquy, drew me deep into his sermon.

Before I knew it, two hours had passed. I rose from my seat, begged Tance’s pardon, and tried to explain that I must leave then and there, lest I upset my employer. Tance would hear none of it. He said that he was just then about to reach the crux of his monologue, and that it would not take but another forty minutes for him to complete his lecture. I certainly did not have another forty minutes to spend listening to Tance, even though I am sure that it would have been thoroughly enjoyable and informative.

Again, I begged for his forgiveness and began to take my leave, but I quickly found the muscled hand of Tance gripping my shoulder. I turned to look at him and saw his beautiful face had soured into a pained grimace. He told me that I mustn’t leave him. He said that it was nearly dinner time and that he planned to prepare quite the flavorsome meal for the two of us. I smiled and thanked him for his generous offer, but explained that I could not stay for a minute longer. I told him that my time at that hour was not my own, but that of my employer. He found my explanation unacceptable, and I felt his grip tighten significantly on my quivering, bruised shoulder.

Understanding that I would not be able to refuse his invitation at that time, I turned and made my way to the chair which I had previously occupied, and began occupying it once more. Tance thanked me and said that he would save the remainder of his talk for after dinner, and he would now begin preparing our meal.

I was now quite nervous and afraid. I had no idea what Tance’s motives might have been. I could not comprehend why it was so important to him that I not leave, but I knew that I was in no position to attempt to oppugn his authority through reasoned speech. No matter what his reasons for keeping me within the four walls of his corten steel home, it quickly became clear to me that I must escape his domicile, crawl through the great, muddy field, and return to the ombudsman to beg for his forgiveness before it was all too late.

I felt sick to my stomach with worry. I did not know what to do. I heard Tance in the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards, retrieving pots, pans, cutlery, and ingredients. It was then that I spotted it; the small, unmistakable blush-hued container. A bottle of Missing Person by Phlur sat on a shelf just a few feet to my right. I had thought that I may have smelled this distinct fragrance as I was greeted by my captor, and now my suspicions had been confirmed. I quickly rose from my seat, pocketed the small glass bottle, and made my way toward the kitchen where I found Tance carefully dicing a particularly large carrot. I did not like the look of him holding a chef’s knife, but I knew that it was in my best interest to make my exit as quickly as possible, and if I were to wait until he no longer possessed the weapon, it might very well be my undoing.

I approached Tance carefully. I made a comment about how good it smelled. He motioned to the sauté pan on the stove, inside of which sizzled a melange of onion, garlic, and what appeared to be human toes. Then, with a single swift, severe movement, I removed the one hundred millilitre container from my trouser pocket, and smashed the glass vessel into Tance’s devastatingly beautiful face. He let out a horrifying scream and slashed blindly toward me with his carrot-stained knife. The tip of the blade met my ear and took off a good portion of it, although, at the time, I felt nothing.

I dashed toward the door and found it locked. Tance howled and thrashed behind me. I turned and saw him wiping his bloodied eyes with one hand, and slashing the air wildly with the great knife in his other. I turned back to the door, and, after what felt like an eternity, managed to unfasten the lock and sprint into the sodden field.

The sun had gone down some time ago, and the firmament was entirely obscured by thick, heavy clouds. The unrelenting wind chilled me to my bones as I scrambled my way through the fetid muck like some sort of slovenly mud eel. When I finally reached the ombudsman’s home, it was nearly dawn. I was shivering and caked in filth. My shirt was torn, my hair stiff with blood, my extremities utterly numb. I collapsed on the floor of his vestibule. I was badly hurt, and sick with exhaustion, but, at least for that brief moment, I felt somewhat safe.

[soppingwethog]

Sel-Vanille by Maison Tahité

I am very sorry. I mean it. I truly do. I’m sorry that this humble fragrance review is a bit longer than many others. I apologize for taking up so much of your time with this, but I know in my heart that this review would not be fair, honest, or informative were I not to include the following paragraphs. I hope you can find something useful in this review of Sel-Vanille by Maison Tahité. I hope it serves you on your journey.

Recently, I found myself on the floor of my home. You see, I had fainted. Just a few moments before, I had risen with the intention of leaving my bedchamber to seek salvation on the porcelain throne. I will not bore you with all of the wet details. Instead, I will simply state that I had enjoyed a fine dinner that evening which had been comprised of a bevy of savory delights and their accompanying cream sauces, which, eventually, angered my innards to the point where the sounds of my own frenetic digestion woke me from my slumber, and spurred me toward the lavatory where I planned to rid myself of the greasy mess that my writhing intestines then held.

Unfortunately, things did not go as smoothly as one would hope. Upon rising from my pallet, I was immediately struck with a sense of great uneasiness. My extremities tingled and felt lighter than air. My head throbbed and swayed as though it were floating in a sea of thick, unctuous liquid.

I generally keep my living quarters quite dark during my sleeping hours, but at that time, there was a fair bit of light in the room due to the night’s vibrant Worm Moon shining through the gaps in my window blinds. I took a few steps toward the door, and then everything went black. Some time later, I cannot fathom how long, I opened my eyes to find myself lying on the floor betwixt my bedchamber and the water closet. I was confused, terrifically sore, and in dire need of the toilet, so, after quickly realizing that I was in no shape to walk due to the immense pain in my head and infirmity of my limbs, I did what I could to claw my way toward the bathroom and hoist my sweat-soaked body onto the sacred seat of relief where I then experienced a particularly emotional bowel movement.

I am not ashamed to admit that I wept while I unleashed my digested dinner into the cold, silent mouth of the toilet. I was scared. I am not accustomed to losing consciousness while walking, and I was acutely worried that what had just happened might be symptomatic of some larger, more malignant condition. I am currently awaiting the results of several costly tests that I underwent following this episode, and should I find that there is any cause for public concern, I will notify the proper authorities and outlets so that they may disseminate that information in a responsible fashion. Until then, all I can do is pray that I am not patient zero of some unspeakable, heretofore unknown malady.

After I had finished my business in the washroom, I stood up, turned, and looked into the bowl, as I so often do. It may sound strange, but I feel a sense of accomplishment at knowing that my body is still capable of such harrowing feats of strength and endurance, and I always try to admire my work before sending it down with a flush to the rats and abandoned alligators which populate our aging sewer system.

As I peered down to assess what my body had produced, I again felt the terrifying lightheadedness which had so recently rendered me unable to maintain my faculties, and down I went. This time, I was not as lucky as I had been before. Rather than landing on the relatively safe, level floor of my home, I instead collapsed onto the toilet, and in doing so, smashed my already bruised head on the rim of the nearly-full bowl.

Hours later, I was roused from my slumber by a rather handsome paramedic. He was shining a blindingly bright light into my eyes, asking me a number of prodding questions about who I was, where I was, and how many of his fingers he was currently holding in front of my nose. Annoyed at his questioning, as I am not one to share such personal information with strangers, I beseeched him to leave me, but he made it clear that he was unwilling to do so as I was then in no shape to care for myself. He then explained that he was a medical professional, and that he had been dispatched to tend to me after a concerned neighbor heard me falling, screaming, and moaning. He also explained that I had severely injured my head, that I would need to be taken to the hospital for further evaluation, and that I was in need of a great number of stitches.

As I was loaded into the back of the ambulance, I made an impassioned plea to the young paramedic. I requested that he venture into my home to attempt to locate a large, oak armoire in my bedchamber, that he take from it one of any of the many vials, bottles, or atomizers that it contained, and that he deliver it unto me so that I might, for comfort, carry a small bit of home to the hospital. He hesitated for a moment before smiling and assuring me that he would do just that.

He returned a moment later and handed me a small glass bottle. I thanked him. The ambulance lurched forward. I looked at the bottle that he had so kindly retrieved for me and saw that it was none other than Sel-Vanille by Maison Tahité. I closed my eyes, smiled, and hoped that there was enough fragrant fluid within this humble vessel to keep me company during my imminent medical confinement.

[soppingwethog]

Me by Snif

I would like to start by saying that I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the abnormal length of this review. I’m sorry that it is not as concise as it could be, but I know in my heart that attempting to truncate the following paragraphs would be doing a disservice to you, the reader. If I am not being honest, thoughtful, and descriptive in my writing, why should I bother? That is my question to you. I hope you will consider it, and, in time, perhaps forgive the extended length of this humble review of Me by Snif. 

Some time ago, I was invited to tour a yogurt making facility. An acquaintance of mine had recently died, and at his wake, I had the pleasure of meeting his uncle who, as we sat next to each other and grieved the loss of somebody who was with us no longer, explained to me that he worked as a district manager for a well-known yogurt brand. Obviously, I was impressed, and, sensing my interest and awe, he said that he would be happy to show me around the factory in just under a fortnight. I accepted this kind invitation with alacrity. We shook hands and briefly embraced before parting ways. I was left with a keen sense of sadness, gratitude, and a small, neat business card. 

On the agreed upon date, I dialed the telephone number printed on the card I had been given by my fallen friend’s uncle, and after a moment, I was delighted to hear the warm, familiar voice of the man I had so recently met. We spoke briefly about our personal grieving processes, and I do not believe I am mistaken in my estimation that the two of us each felt a strong, deep connection to one another, likely due to the strange, unhappy event that brought the two of us together. 

We sat silently on the phone for a moment before we finished the call by discussing the details of the precise time and place we would be meeting each other. I was to arrive at the rear gate of the sprawling facility at 2:00 PM that afternoon. I gave him my word that I would be there and we said our goodbyes. After hanging up the telephone, I bathed my entire body, groomed my many hairs, and dressed myself in garments I felt were appropriate for this unique occasion. 

Once I felt presentable, I headed for the bus depot where I waited some twenty minutes before the motorcoach arrived that would convey me to my intended destination. As luck would have it, there was a bus stop not more than a kilometer from the factory’s rear gate. 

The short stroll from the bus stop to the industrial yogurt making campus was quite nice. It was a fine afternoon in early summer. As I walked, I passed an elementary school. It was a true delight to hear the children’s unbridled joy and verve as they played their schoolchildren games and dashed hither and thither. I was in no great rush, so I ambled leisurely toward my destination. I had plenty of time, and as such, I took a rather circuitous route which allowed me the opportunity to admire a large community garden that was a veritable bevy of vegetant growth. I felt an intense thrill at seeing the chaotic assortment of foliage, vegetables, flowers, and herbs in vibrant bloom. It was a feast for the senses and I, being of a voracious constitution, stood marveling at it for quite some time. 

After I had satiated myself with the sights, sounds, and smells of the beautiful garden, I carried on toward my destination, where, upon my arrival, I found the rear gate of the yogurt manufactory cordoned off with crime scene tape, and a tangle of police, press vehicles, and curious citizens. After a great deal of effort, I was able to push my way through the bustling throng of looky-loos where I was met with the stern, hamburgeresque face of a sheriff. I tried my best to explain to the dullard that I had an appointment that I couldn’t afford to miss. He told me that I was not permitted to enter as the area had been designated an active crime scene. I pleaded with this huge, ugly arm of the law. I told him of the recent funeral and my chance encounter with the kind man who had invited me here today. I made mention of the fact that it was none other than the district manager himself who had asked me to visit him at this very hour. 

The uniformed officer scoffed and, with a wry smile that I found particularly distasteful, asked me the name of the gentlemen whom I was to meet. I gave him the name forthwith. I also produced the business card I had been given. I presented it to the uncouth deputy. He snatched the card from my hand, scoffed again, and tossed it back at me. Unable to catch it, I watched it fall to the ground. I lowered myself, picked it up, and as I stood, the officer told me that I wouldn’t be attending my meeting today because the gentleman I had planned on visiting had, not more than one hour before, been found cooked to death in a large vat of lemon flavored yogurt. 

To say that I was stunned would be a gross understatement. I said nothing to the heartless man who had just delivered such an insensitive blow to my psyche. I simply turned around and walked quickly away from that wretched scene. I wandered aimlessly for a time, thinking of the poor, kindly wight who had met such an unfortunate demise. I wept as I walked and, after a while, found myself seated at the bus stop at which I had been deposited just a few short hours before. 

I felt emotionally and intellectually dulled. I am no doctor, but I think it is fair to say that I was likely experiencing an acute sort of shock. I couldn’t believe what had happened. As I sat on the bus, staring out the window at the passing buildings, I wondered how a man, a district manager at that, could have fallen into a boiling cauldron of lemon flavored yogurt and perished before any other workers at the plant came to his aid.

It was then I remembered something he had told me at the funeral. He had mentioned that the facility had recently undergone a series of changes, in regard to machinery, computer systems, and staffing. The number of people working on the factory floor dropped dramatically due to the introduction of more efficient, computer-assisted machines. The work that had once taken fifteen men a full day to complete could now be finished in three hours by a team of two. This meant that there were far fewer people on-site during the time my new friend found himself in the viscous grip of thousands of gallons of scalding dairy. What a horrible way to leave the world. 

When I arrived home, I found a small package waiting for me in my mailbox. I opened it and was surprised to see that it was a bottle of Me by Snif. I had completely forgotten that I had ordered it several weeks before. It had gotten lost in the post for a time, but it had now finally arrived. I was excited, but I couldn't bring myself to try it. I was in no mood for such things.  

Instead, I made my way to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and retrieved from it a small cup of lemon flavored yogurt.

[soppingwethog]

White Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International

Before I get into the hearty meat of this review, I would like to issue a formal apology. I would like to say that I am sorry for this being a bit longer than many fragrance reviews. I do not wish to waste your time, but I found it impossible to provide a careful, unbiased review of this unique, viscous serum without doing what I could to paint a picture of the day during which I first encountered White Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International.

I recently moved to a town that is largely unfamiliar to me. While I have visited this particular location a number of times over the past decade, its exact character and shape remains elusive. I cannot say that I blame this town or its inhabitants. I have not done the work necessary to become intimately acquainted with its secrets and intricacies. For now, I am at peace with this. Perhaps someday I will reach into the slimy innards of the city and feel around for what really resides within its tangled guts, but until then, I accept my ignorance.

During my first week here, the weather was foul. I spent nearly all of my time indoors, working, cooking, and ruminating on the myriad of choices that brought me to where I was. It was not an unpleasant time, but I looked forward with alacrity to a day when the rain would cease its constant moistening of the earth so that I might be able to more easily traverse the neighborhood on foot, as is my wont.

After a few more sodden days, I was greeted with a brisk, dry morning, and I took this opportunity to make good on the promise I had made to myself. This promise, of course, was to take a long, leisurely stroll along the avenues and pikes of this new, mysterious land, observe the local townsfolk, and, with any luck, locate a post office so that I could mail a packet of notarized documents which needed to be received by the local government in the town I had so recently and hastily fled.

The morning air was quite cold, but after a kilometer or so, I found myself warmed and invigorated from the locomotion of my legs. The crisp air bit into my lungs with each breath in a way which was not unpleasant, and the periodic sound of unfamiliar beasts of the land and air kept me alert and vigilant. It was a fine morning walk, and not one that I shall soon forget.

I did eventually make my way to a postal substation and was delighted to find that there was not a long line of ornery individuals spilling from the mouth of the building. This was quite the surprise as I know substations to be packed with all sorts of human beings at nearly all hours of the day. I thought to myself that things must be different in this part of the world, and I considered myself lucky until I ventured inside to find a police officer’s revolver pointed directly at my red, running nose.

The ugly man with the gun and the badge demanded that I raise my hands above my head. Not wanting to end up with another bullet in my corpse, I followed his order. Once my hands were thoroughly and completely raised, the officer asked what it was that I thought I was doing. I planned to explain to him that the parcel which I held in my right hand needed to be sent by post to a town thousands of miles away, but before I could say anything, he sneezed fully and directly into my wincing face.

Stunned, I instinctively lowered my hands and withdrew a handkerchief from my person. At this, the officer opened fire, somehow missing me and shattering the huge plate glass window behind me. I dropped to the floor, facedown, and covered the back of my head and neck with my shaking hands as glass rained all around me. I kept my eyes closed. I could hear screaming and sneezing. The screaming stopped, but the sneezing continued, uninterrupted, for a curiously long time. I slowly lifted my head from the floor and opened my eyes to find the poorly trained cop lying on his back, unconscious, sneezing.

Sensing that this might be my only opportunity to escape this horrible situation, I picked up my parcel and rushed out of the building. I sprinted across the street until I came upon a grocer’s shop which I entered forthwith. I caught my breath as I tried my best to appear like I hadn’t, just moments before, almost been murdered. It was there that I first came into contact with White Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International.

A redheaded woman carrying an ungodly large bushel of celery passed me, and as she did so, I was enveloped in a sweet, unctuous aroma. I am generally not one to talk to a stranger unless it is absolutely necessary as I have found that it often leads to more trouble than it is worth, but I simply had to know the name of the fragrance I had just inhaled.

I asked the woman what it was she was wearing and she explained to me that she was not wearing any fragrance at all, but that she suffered from a rare skin infection on her scalp that resulted in large, irritated sores which emitted a strong aroma. She had obviously been asked about this before. She continued on, telling me that the closest commercially available scent she had found to the one which her wounds excreted was White Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International. I thanked her for her kindness and then quickly left the merchant’s tiny storefront to return home, doing my best to not turn and look at what was most certainly a cordoned off crime scene at the post office across the street.

I have yet to purchase a bottle of White Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International, but I believe what the redolent woman told me. She had an honest look about her, and I can’t imagine why she might lie about her head sores and their smell. One should never be dishonest about one’s sores.

[soppingwethog]

Dead Dinosaur by Snif

I would like to begin this review with an apology. I’m sorry and I hope that you will forgive me. I am sorry if my appraisal of Dead Dinosaur by Snif appears longwinded or verbose. That is not at all my intention. I felt it necessary to provide a little bit of background information regarding the very first time I encountered this fragrant concoction in order to present a more robust, well-rounded analysis. I hope you will find the following text enlightening and helpful in some way.

Earlier this year, I was forced to travel a long distance. This required me to fly, which is something I generally do not enjoy. I am not a supporter of air travel. I much prefer walking whenever possible, but alas, some distances are just too great for me to traverse on foot, and as such, I was made to board an airplane and sit inside of the tightly-packed vessel for several hours.

My time spent at the airport was largely uneventful, with the exception of being forced to witness an unleashed dog defecate in the middle of a bustling walkway. A woman, who I can only assume was the poor beast’s owner, did little to rectify the disgusting situation. Rather than taking the time to properly clean and disinfect the sloppy mess, she instead pushed the steaming, pliable waste logs toward the wall with a single kick, picked up the unhinged animal, and continued on her way. I had never seen anything like it, and I hope I never do again. In my opinion, there is nothing worse than being forced to be in close contact with a great number of strangers.

After what felt like several eternities, I was finally able to board the flying vessel with my fellow sufferers. The flight was horrendously full which meant that I found myself seated betwixt two slovenly oafs who seemed to be doing all they could to pester and annoy me. The gentleman to my right spent the duration of the flight spitting large mouthfuls of stringy, viscous slime into a plastic bottle. The woman to my left continually moaned and grunted in a manner I found deeply unpleasant and somewhat alarming.

At one point during the flight, the miserable, groaning harridan decided to retrieve from her luggage a small parcel. Being an irredeemably clumsy, uncouth wretch, she managed to ram her sharpened elbow directly into my eyes not once, but twice, leaving me with an unsightly bruise which encircled the entirety of my ocular region. On top of that, she dropped her parcel directly onto the crown of my head, which resulted in a headache that lasted well into the next day.

When she was finally seated again, she removed the greasy paper from the fardel to reveal a small, iridescent cylinder. Upon closer inspection, I saw that it was a bottle of Dead Dinosaur by Snif. I was intrigued, but I had absolutely no interest in asking the woman about the fragrance, as she was now moaning and growling with an intensity that frightened me no small amount. I decided I would close my eyes and try to block out the horrors of humanity which surrounded me, and, with any luck, lose consciousness for the remainder of the flight.

Unfortunately, this did not happen. Just a few moments after closing my blackened eyes, I was roused to attention by the sound of the woman gasping and choking. I looked to her in amazement as she gulped down the full contents of the perfume bottle. She stood and screamed, spewing forth some of the potently fragrant liquid from her foaming maw. She then clawed her way over the row of passengers seated in front of us before being thrown to the floor and pinned down by a number of muscle-bound travelers.

The entire vessel was now saturated with the smell of blood and perfume. The blighted woman was subdued. I believe a man of medicine onboard the airplane may have administered some sort of sedative, as it wasn’t long before she was unconscious and drooling. Several passengers complained loudly to the flight staff about the smell. The woman had spat a great quantity of Dead Dinosaur by Snif throughout the cabin. The aroma was intense and penetrating. A child vomited. An elderly man begged for a window to be opened. He said that he was having trouble breathing.

The captain then made an announcement. Rather than continuing on to the planned destination, we would instead be diverted to a nearby airstrip where we would land, disembark, and wait for the interior of the vessel to be thoroughly cleaned before continuing on. This information was met with a mix of cheers and hisses from the passengers. I was silent. I had just witnessed something unspeakably horrible. I was in a great deal of pain. I wanted to be anywhere other than in that horrible metal tube which was filled to bursting with people I did not know and could not stand.

I later read that the woman who had been seated next to me had perished after she was taken to a hospital. Apparently, she had somehow swallowed the glass bottle in which the perfume was housed, and when she was tackled and pinned to the ground, the bottle shattered, piercing her innards with a thousand tiny shards of scented glass.

Some nights I lie awake in bed. I feel restless and uneasy. I recall the sound of her groaning and grunting. It was a deeply upsetting noise. She sounded like some sort of wounded prehistoric beast. I feel haunted by these sounds. I hope they leave me. I hope I may one day be freed.

[soppingwethog]

Dandelion Butter by Clue Perfumery

Please forgive me. I am terribly sorry. I truly do not wish to upset you or take up too much of your day with this review. I know that it is longer than others, but I hope you might find the content valuable. I also want to make it clear that it is not my intention to boast or gloat. You see, the following paragraphs include details about my lovely girlfriend. I do not bring her up in order to brag about my unbelievable luck and happiness. I mention her because this particular perfume only came into the realm of my understanding thanks to her benevolence, kindness, and good taste. I apologize if this comes off as any sort of fanfaronade.

My incredibly beautiful, loving, smart, thoughtful girlfriend recently had to leave for a short business trip. Even though the trip consisted of just a few hundred miles, and only lasted forty-eight hours, I missed her intensely while we were apart. We both missed each other because we love each other dearly and cherish the time we spend together. Ours is a love that is pure, sacred, and invaluable.

I tried my best to busy myself in her absence, and as such, I thought I would try my hand at selling some old personal belongings that were now largely disused. I took stock of my items and chose from them a good number to sell. I had no intention of offering the objects as a collection as they were far too disparate. The dozen or so pieces ranged from furniture to tools to bibelots. It was quite the strange assemblage.

I know that it is common these days for this type of commerce to be handled with the assistance of the internet, but I felt compelled to go about it differently. I drafted up a few neat, attractive signs to advertise my offerings, and I posted them on a number of lamp posts, fences, and mail receptacles in the area. It wasn’t long before I began receiving telephone calls from inquiring strangers who seemed eager to purchase my belongings.

The first few transactions went smoothly. I sold an old camping tent and a microwave oven. I sold a decorative brooch to an elderly gentleman who had but one single tooth in his incredibly wet mouth. I sold a television set to a woman who promised to pray for me in a tone that I found vaguely threatening. Overall, I was quite satisfied with how these sales were proceeding.

It was my plan to take my newly acquired funds, and with them purchase a fine gift for my beloved. I had a specific present in mind, but the items I had sold thus far had not brought me the sufficient amount to make my purchase, so I waited patiently by the telephone, thinking of my lovely girlfriend, hoping for a call from an enthusiastic stranger who might be interested in purchasing any of my once-cherished objects.

After receiving a few calls from ne’er-do-wells who only wished to waste my time, the telephone rang and when I answered, I heard the clear voice of a young man who proclaimed to be keenly interested in the bicycle I had for sale. We quickly discussed the details of the machine, and he asked if he could meet me to purchase it forthwith. To this, I agreed with alacrity, and in under a quarter of an hour, I was standing face to face with a man I hope to never encounter again. You see, this man had no intention of purchasing my bicycle. Of course, I was unaware of this at the time. Had I known what he had planned, I would have thrashed him brutally in the street for all to see.

We met outside of a local eatery. He greeted me kindly and began examining the bicycle. He complimented the color and condition. He asked if he might take it for a short ride up and down the street to see how it handled. This sounded like a reasonable request, so I agreed without hesitation. He then mounted the bicycle and rode down the street before turning and riding back toward me. As he approached, he smiled. I expected him to stop by my side, but instead, he rode swiftly past me and slapped me in the face with the palm of his open hand.

I was momentarily stunned, but it didn’t take long for me to gather my wits and pursue the horrible rogue. I was unable to match his speed, and after a short while, I realized that there was no chance of catching him. I stopped running and collapsed in the street in a posture of genuflection. I was exhausted. I was angry. I was forlorn.

A passing motorist slowed and then stopped alongside me. They rolled down their window and asked me if I was alright. All I could do was shake my head in sorrow. They offered to drive me anywhere within reason, and after a deep breath, I accepted their kindness. I made my way into the passenger side of their vehicle and they drove me to my home where, once inside, I called my indescribably magnificent girlfriend and told her of the whole ordeal I had just experienced. With a heart filled with undying love, care, and kindliness, she soothed me completely. By the time our conversation ended, I was feeling much better. Not only had my true love raised my bruised and battered spirits, but she also reminded me that we would once again be in each other’s arms in less than twenty-four hours. I felt buoyed by this, and I gained strength from her unmatched benevolence and warmth.

After our phone call, I made quick work of removing and disposing of the signs I had posted throughout the town. I busied myself by cleaning. I made myself a fine dinner. I went to bed early that night, thinking that the sooner I fell asleep, the less time I would need to be conscious without my cherished love by my side.

When I opened my eyes the next morning, I was shocked to see the incomparably lovely visage of my one and only smiling at me. At first I couldn’t believe it, but when she leaned down and pressed her soft lips to my forehead, there was no doubt that this was real, that this was love. I asked her why it was that she was home several hours before her scheduled arrival. She kindly explained that she was able to take an earlier flight, and that she had thought surprising me like this might hearten me after what had happened. With tears of love and gratitude in my eyes, I wrapped my arms around her and held her close.

After a long while, we released our loving embrace. With a look of ineffable sweetness, she turned and withdrew a small parcel from her satchel. It was a bottle of Dandelion Butter by Clue Perfumery that she had purchased for me as a gift. I was overcome with emotion. Again, I wept tears of pure, honest joy and appreciation for this living angel who fills me with such love.

We spent the remainder of the day lounging comfortably together. It was one of a countless number of truly special days that I have had the honor of spending with my girlfriend. To say that I am lucky would be a gross minimization. There is no way I can put into words the unending love I feel for this benevolent being. All I can hope to do is spend the rest of my days working tirelessly to show her how I feel, and a part of that will be proudly wearing the fragrance she so thoughtfully gifted me, if I can ever find it. I believe I misplaced it when I was so overwhelmed with love and affection in the moment of its presentation. I’m certain I will find it. I must. There is no other option.

[soppingwethog]

Tiramisu by Theodoros Kalotinis

I’m sorry. I mean it. I’m sorry for the wordiness of the following text, but it would not be possible to provide a truthful, accurate, thoughtful review without setting the scene and giving a little bit of background information regarding my first encounter with this unique, potent perfume. If I were to reduce this review to a few short lines, I would be doing the fragrance a great disservice.

Just yesterday, I drove some fifty miles from my home to a small, rural airport. You see, I occasionally enjoy wandering among the parked aircraft, examining their shapes and colors, watching incoming and outgoing autogyros and airplanes, and dining at the small restaurant which is situated on the north side of the airport.

The food served at this diner is nothing special, but the curt, angry waitstaff who populate the tiny establishment delight me to no end. I enjoy their snide comments and seemingly unfinished look. They appear as though their creator, upset with what he had wrought, stopped partway through their molding, leaving them incomplete and destitute. I do not know how one place was able to locate and employ so many people of this same type, but I am endlessly thankful that they have.

There is one server in particular, a middle-aged man named Halbert Fork, who I favor more than any of the others. He is the meanest, ugliest, and most curmudgeonly of all of the mean, ugly curmudgeons who work at this lonely airport restaurant. I cannot tell you how many times I have had the pleasure of being served by Halbert without either of us saying a word to each other. Sometimes, I do not even get an opportunity to place an order. I simply sit in my preferred booth near the large plate glass window facing the runway while Halbert brings me whatever he sees fit. I am not offered any choices. I am not given a menu. When Halbert is especially surly, he brings me what he wants me to eat, I eat it, pay for the meal, and leave without a word to anybody. It’s a very special experience that I dare say is quite rare in today’s overindulgent service industry.

If you ask me, the customer is not always right. In fact, they are almost always wrong, and on top of that, they are rude, pigheaded, ignorant, and possess indefatigable reserves of aggressive stupidity, misdirected anger, and entitlement. The world would likely be a better place were there more people like Halbert Fork.

I do not visit the agrestic diner often. I generally do not care to spend money on prepared meals when I am perfectly capable of preparing meals for myself. As such, I see Halbert but once or twice a year. When I visited yesterday morning, I learned that Halbert was planning to retire from his post in just a few weeks. At first, this saddened me, as I see Mr. Fork as a shining example of the brusque, pugnaciousness that is so desperately needed in restaurants and other service-centered businesses, but that sadness quickly transformed into a sort of bemused joy as I thought of Halbert spending his remaining days in beautiful solitude and contemplation. He would no longer have to endure the horrors of serving customers. He would need only to serve himself. I smiled at the image I conjured of him; sitting silently in a tattered rocking chair on the porch of some dilapidated hovel, looking out over the barren wastes of his domain.

Just then, Halbert, as ornery as ever, appeared at my booth, dropped a heavy plate of steaming grits and scrambled eggs on the table in front of me, and continued on without so much as glancing at me. I finished the subpar food as I watched a couple of single-engine aircraft take flight and disappear into the cold, unforgiving firmament. I then paid my bill and left.

While driving home, I decided that I would do something unthinkable. I would present Halbert with a gift of thanks for his years of unfriendly service. A few minutes later, I found myself in a perfume seller’s shop. I did not know what I should purchase for old Mr. Fork, for I could not imagine him wearing or perhaps even being aware of perfumes, colognes, or any sort of personal fragrance. Then, I came upon an elegant bottle of Tiramisu by Theodoros Kalotinis. For reasons I do not quite understand, I felt that this would be a perfect choice for Halbert. I asked the proprietor of the shop to wrap the bottle with brightly colored paper. He did so without complaint. I paid the gentleman, and began my voyage back to the humble airport diner.

In less than an hour, I was again inside the dismal eatery. I waited for a few minutes before seeing Halbert appear from the kitchen, carrying two plates of sandwiches. I watched him deposit the plates on a table before returning to the kitchen. He did not look at me. I made my way toward the kitchen door and waited. When he next appeared, I stepped into his path, and he met my eyes with a look of pure, unbridled disgust. I smiled warmly, set the wrapped gift on the counter next to him, looked at it, and told him that this was a gift for him. He looked quickly at the small parcel before pushing past me. I watched him as he delivered another meal to a seated patron. He returned to where I was standing, picked up my offering of thanks, walked into the kitchen, held the door open so that I had a clear view of him, and then dropped the festooned little box into a wastebin. He let the door close. I laughed.

[soppingwethog]

Musk Amber Fragrance Oil by Nemat International

I hope you know how sorry I am for the length of this review. It is never my intention to be overly verbose. However, I know in my heart that the great quantity of words below, although intimidating, are absolutely essential. There is no way that I would be able to provide a clear, informative review of Musk Amber Fragrance Oil by Nemat International were I to have censored and culled this text any further than I already have. I hope you can understand that. I hope you can appreciate all that I am trying to do.

Just the other day, two of my dear friends, Ignatius and Phoenix, visited me. It was a truly delightful experience. I had not seen either of them in quite some time. We spent the day and evening praising, complimenting, honoring, and expressing love and admiration for one another. I cannot tell you how joyous and uplifting it was. I know that life is often difficult, but connecting with old friends is one of the few things that makes this wretched existence worth the struggle.

The three of us spent the afternoon wandering through a nearly deserted park and enjoying our quiet, verdant surroundings. We joked and laughed, and it is no exaggeration to say that we each felt a deep, heartfelt love for one another during our time together. We saw turtles and lizards and several mangled rats as we slowly meandered through the manicured foliage. It was simply wonderful.

After our time at the park, my dear comrade, Ignatius, a handsome, accomplished scientist, declared that he was in the mood for an extra large serving of frozen yogurt. Luckily for him, I knew that there was a small but serviceable yogurt vendor’s shop not more than a kilometer from where we stood. I informed Ignatius of this and watched his beautiful face glow with hunger and appreciation. The three of us marched, arm in arm, toward the yogurt purveyor, and as we did so, we sang a song of thanks and happiness together, not with our voices, but with our hearts.

When we reached the yogurt shop, which was really more of a shack than a licensed market, we found a line of waiting customers some twenty persons deep. This perplexed me as I had never known this yogurt merchant to have had many customers. I have passed his humble establishment many times and not once have I ever seen more than a single individual purchasing a handful of his homemade dairy. I apologized to my two fine companions for what would certainly be a long wait, but they, being the bright, loving gentlemen that they are, begged me not to apologize, and instead made note of the fact that as long as the three of us were together, there could be no drudgery or boredom as we all enjoy each other’s company so much. They were right. The time we spent in line was thoroughly pleasant due to their unending kindness, wit, and good humor.

Once inside the yogurtman’s shop, all three of us marveled at his many offerings. His selection of cold, flavored dairy items was thoughtfully curated and intriguing. His toppings looked fresh and tantalizing. I, being the penny pincher that I am, declined to partake in the gourmet frozen treats, but the eager Ignatius filled his cup posthaste.

After Ignatius paid for his handsome dessert, we made our way outside where he began devouring his prized confection with alacrity. I cheered his hearty appetite, and the three of us laughed and enjoyed ourselves in front of the yogurt seller’s shop until a woman who was in a great, frenzied hurry rushed past us. She seemed to be somewhat unaware of her surroundings in her agitated state and as such, her shoulder made direct contact with mine, causing me to fall backward onto the ground.

While I was quite bothered by her intense discourtesy, I had no time to chastise her as I noticed that something had fallen from her satchel. I picked up the item and saw that it was a bottle of Musk Amber Fragrance Oil by Nemat International. My two dear friends helped me up from the ground and looked angrily at the woman who was some forty paces away. I bid them to wait just a moment while I returned the rude stranger’s fragrant oil. I dusted myself off and began jogging briskly toward the woman. After a short while, I closed the distance betwixt us and, still traveling at a quick pace, begged her pardon, and held out my hand in an attempt to return her dropped amulet.

Her eyes darted to my upturned palm which held the perfume. She quickly snatched the bottle from me and hissed some foul remark before turning sharply left. I shouted to her, but it was too late. She had taken a few rapid steps into the road where she was immediately and completely flattened by a large autobus. The scene was horrific, and not one that I care to detail here.

My two loving companions and I spent the rest of the evening doing everything we could to raise each other’s spirits. Yes, I was mere feet away from the ghastly ordeal, but my sweet friends had been watching the entire drama play out, and they too were deeply disturbed by the calamitous event. It was a bittersweet end to what had been a truly special day. I would be lying if I said the three of us did not spend part of the night holding each other and weeping, but if you cannot shed a tear with your closest friends, are they really your friends at all?

[soppingwethog]

Slice Society by Snif

Please forgive me. I’m sincerely sorry for the length of this review. I don’t mean to take up too much of your time. All I am attempting to do is provide a thoughtful, thorough review of this unique, mouthwatering fragrance, and in order to do so, I have found it necessary to use a great many words. I hope, despite its verbosity, you might be able to gain something of value from my humble writing.

When I was several years old, I often visited a small, disheveled pizza parlor. It was solely managed by a quarrelous, hirsute man who must have been at least seventy years old at the time. I have no way to verify this supposition, but I imagine that he has now been dead for many years and his bones are little more than rich, fragrant dirt. I truly hope that he has found peace in his loamy resting place.

The man’s name was Calvin, but for now, I will be calling him Calzone because that is what I called him back then and it made him quite angry and, at the time, I thought that was very funny and I still do. Calzone was not a bad man, as far as I could tell. Mind you, I have not performed any sort of background check, nor have I interviewed friends, relatives, associates, or acquaintances about Calzone’s character or reputation. I speak only from my personal experience with him. Sure, he would sometimes use profanity in my presence or threaten to toss me into the roaring inferno of the pizza oven if I refused to stop calling him Calzone, but I do not hold these minor offenses against him, and I hope that he has forgiven me for the many wet messes I made in his lavatory and the stress I must have caused by repeatedly referring to him by a name that I knew he did not particularly like.

I regularly dined at Calzone’s establishment after school. It was located just a short walk from my place of forced education and, if the weather was fine and I had no reason to rush homeward after the school bell’s final tolling, I would enjoy a leisurely stroll to visit Calzone and purchase a slice or two of my favorite pizza which was, of course, a rich, bright pie he called the Marinara. It was a disc of flavorful, burnished crust which was generously topped with hand-crushed tomatoes, sliced garlic, Sicilian oregano, salt, and olive oil. It was a simple, delicious treat of which I never tired.

During one such visit, as I was finishing my scalding hot piece of tomato-laced bread, a group of boys, who appeared to be a few years older than myself, entered Calzone’s shabby restaurant in a rather boisterous manner. At first, I paid them no mind as I was focused on the savory, delicious meal that I was so busy chewing and digesting, but it quickly became apparent that these three boys were in the mood for more than just Calzone’s succulent Italian offerings.

One of the boys caught sight of me and shouted a word so foul that I dare not try typing it. My hands quiver at the mere thought. I shan’t. I mustn’t.

I immediately turned away from the uncouth young man and did my best to look only at the plate in front of me. I desperately wanted them to complete their purchases and be on their way, but alas, this was not what happened. The boy who had shouted at me, a gap-toothed dullard with hair like dry, cracked mud, marched over and stood beside the booth upon which I was seated. I felt as though I had no other option but to face him so that is what I did. I turned my gaze up from my plate and looked into his wet little eyes. A greasy smirk wormed its way across his lips. He asked me if he could sit with me. I made no reply. He motioned to his two unattractive henchboys and they quickly joined him. The three of them sat in the booth opposite me.

The mudheaded dunce reached across the crumb-bespeckled tabletop and lifted the plate which sat before me and brought it to his face where he took a long, exaggerated sniff of the remainder of my slice of pizza. He made some snide remark about how the pizza might have smelled appetizing were it not for the remnants of my stinky breath which lingered all over it. The two others cackled wetly at the insult. I gave no response. The boy asked if I had heard him. I nodded in affirmation. Again, the violent worm of a smirk flashed across his pockmarked face.

The boy began to pass the thick enameled plate back toward me, but before it was all the way across the table, he lifted it up, and with a swift motion, upturned the plate and brought it crashing down onto the top of my brain box. I saw a great flash of blue light and heard the three miscreants cackling before everything went black.

I awoke some time later, lying on the floor behind the counter with Calzone sitting next to me on a milk crate. He smiled when he saw me stirring. The pain I felt was immense and all-encompassing. I didn’t understand how getting hit on the head could cause my legs and hands and back to hurt so badly. Cal explained that the plate was but the first blow of many that the three boys had dealt to my weak, withered corpse before he was able to pull them off of me and dispose of them. That is when I noticed a filthy, bloodsoaked rag which was wrapped around Calvin’s left hand. I asked him if he was alright and he confirmed that he was. He didn’t say it explicitly, but the allusion-filled story with which he regaled me as he examined his bloodied appendage made it quite clear to me that at least one of the boys who had so violently assailed me that afternoon had very likely met their demise in the huge oven that stood so imposingly in the back of Cal’s restaurant.

Calvin had closed his business early that afternoon. He tended to my many wounds as best he could, and when I was able to walk, he even let me take home an order of garlic knots free of charge.

We never spoke of the incident after that day. Our relationship continued as if nothing had happened. I would regularly visit his establishment and pester him while I ate the topnotch pizza he so expertly baked. I promised myself that I would never tell anybody about Calvin cooking that boy to death in his pizza oven, but now that the hairy pizzaiolo is surely no longer of this mortal realm, I see no harm in sharing this gruesome, touching tale with you.

It has been many years since I have seen Calvin or his restaurant. I don’t imagine that it’s still standing, and if it is, it has likely been transformed into something more profitable like a bullet shop. I still think of him and his superlative pizza from time to time and it brings me back to the difficult, enjoyable days of my youth.

As I get older, it becomes more and more challenging to recall these precious memories with clarity. I purchased a small bottle of Slice Society by Snif in an attempt to assist me in my recollections of these specific times. They say that smell is the sense most strongly tied to memory. Unfortunately, this smells nothing like Calvin or his outstanding pizzas.

I doubt that I will ever be able to find anything that truly transports me back to my youth. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe the past is best left behind us. Or maybe I’m just telling myself that in an attempt to reckon with the finite nature of life and the ever-expanding distance between who I was back then and who I am today. I don’t know. I doubt I ever will.

[soppingwethog]

Salty by Being Frenshe

I would like to take a brief moment to issue a formal apology to you, dear reader, and anybody else who might come across this review. I’m not sure how you would consume this other than by reading it. Maybe somebody read it to you. Maybe it will one day be turned into a radio drama and it will be performed by talented actors to the delight of millions of listeners all across the globe. I can’t say for sure. What I can say for sure is that I am sorry. I’m sorry for the length of this review. I’m sorry that it’s more than a few short lines. However, I truly feel that in order to write an honest review of this fragrance, I must provide a little bit of background information in regard to the day during which I first encountered this singular, aromatic fluid.

Eleven days ago, I found myself enjoying a pleasant walk on a path that ran along the bank of a slow-moving river. I often have difficulty sleeping and, on this particular morning, as is so often the case, I decided to take a leisurely stroll. Mind you, this was morning by definition only. The sun was nowhere to be seen and because of this, it was quite dark outside. If I remember correctly, it was just after three in the ante meridiem.

The air was brisk and stimulating and my lungs and loins felt rather invigorated with the freshness of the coming day. As it was so horrendously early, I was certain that I was the only person walking along the river path, and in this knowledge, I took great pleasure. The solitude felt as excellent as the cool air, and in my revelry, I caught myself chuckling aloud. At first I felt a sharp pang of embarrassment. I am not one to laugh to myself in public, but then, realizing that I was alone, the embarrassment faded and turned into a sort of jubilant pride.

It is not often that I feel so buoyant and blithe so I did what I could to make the most of this rare opportunity. I chuckled to myself again, and then, after glancing around and ensuring that there were no others to witness my tomfoolery, I laughed loudly and boldly. I ran a few paces and leapt into the air and did a rather dashing spin. I clapped my hands together above my head and smiled, my eyes welling with tears of true, unbridled joy. With my bare arm, I wiped away the blood which had begun leaking from both of my nostrils during my vigorous skylarking. At this, I laughed and then gave a short, percussive hoot. I spun around quickly and gave another two hoots before dropping to my knees in the middle of the wellworn dirt path, raising my two arms above my head, and shouting as loud as I could into the crystalline night.

I stayed in a pose of secular genuflection for a few moments while I caught my breath and felt the exhilarating radiance of the night surround my being. I heard a twig snap behind me. I quickly turned in an attempt to locate the precise source of the sound. That is when the jogger, whose name I later learned was Edna Haunch, spotted me in the beam of her head-mounted lamp. She screamed at the sight of me, and before I could stand to greet her, she pulled something from her satchel and sprayed it into my eyes and mouth, thrice in quick succession.

I was immediately rendered blind. I fell to the ground gasping and choking. I called out. I begged for help. I couldn’t see anything, and the searing ocular pain was immense. I spat and heaved dryly as I scrambled through the dead grass into a thick patch of poison oak and blackberry bushes, trying to find salvation in this dark, uncaring land.

I’ll spare you the details of how I came to be discovered some three hours later by a family of German tourists who were kind enough to rinse my red, swollen eyes with their electrolyte-infused sports drinks before transporting me to the nearby nature center. I won’t bore you by telling you about how the nature center staff did what they could to tend to my wounds before trucking me off to the hospital where I stayed for two days and nights.

None of that is important. What is important is that on our way to the hospital, one of the nature center employees, a man called Lorman, told me that a woman, Edna Haunch, had reported seeing some sort of ghoul or goblin squatting in the trail earlier that morning. She explained to Lorman that she was so terribly frightened when she spotted the fiend that she immediately drew her pressurized canister of bear spray from her bag and doused the horrible being from snout to tail. She then turned and ran back up the path until she reached the nature center which was, at that hour, utterly deserted. Too shaken to drive, she sat in her vehicle in the parking lot of the nature center until her fear-induced exhaustion lulled her to sleep.

When she awoke, she found that the center was just opening its doors. She rushed inside and told Lorman the details of her encounter, pulling from her bag the now partially-spent canister of bear repellent. As she removed the container from her purse, she saw that she held before her not a steel can of caustic liquid, but a cylindrical glass bottle of Salty by Being Frenshe. She set the fragrance bottle on the counter betwixt herself and Lorman and dug through her belongings to find the bear spray. Of course, she came up empty handed.

As Lorman provided me with the details of what exactly had happened that morning, a painful smile spread across my lips. I inhaled deeply through my nose and I could smell it. I could smell a faint hint of that unique, salty elixir.

[soppingwethog]

Escentric 02 by Escentric Molecules

I am terrifically sorry. I try my best to be informative and succinct with my writings, but time and time again I find that they exceed the brevity of a standard fragrance review, and instead balloon outward into unwieldy behemoths. I know this might appear a bit wordy, but I promise you that the words I have chosen to include are essential, each and every one of them. I know in my heart that this review would not be fair, objective, or honest were I not to have included the entirety of the text below.

I used to live in a small hamlet which was quite renowned for having the area’s finest eggnog. The inhabitants took special pride in all of their artisanal, handwrought nogs. We all know the ever-popular egg variety, but the home cooks and craftspeople in this village concocted many other types of nog, including goose, rabbit, sheep’s milk, and ham. The townsfolk loved their nogs so fervently that each year, on the eleventh evening of December, they held a nog festival which the denizens, ever the reasonable bunch, called the December Nog Festival.

When I first moved to this town which I dare not name, it was made known to me that the Nog Festival had been held for generations and that I would be seen as an ill-mannered fool were I to miss this time-honored event. Not wanting to appear ill-mannered or foolish, I circled the date on my calendar and made certain that I would be available to attend the night’s festivities once the time came.

I did not have to wait long. I had moved to this census-designated place toward the end of the autumnal quadrant, and, being in the most northern of hemispheres, this meant that I had only to wait a few short weeks until I would be able to bask in the splendor and cheer of the storied Nog Festival. During those two weeks, I watched the small townlet transform from a sleepy, economically depressed community into a much more vibrantly-decorated economically depressed community. I learned that it was customary for buildings, both commercial and residential, to have great sheets of yellow and pink fabric or paper hung from their windows. Some of the sheets were terrifically long and spilled into the thoroughfares below, but the constable turned a blind eye to this likely illegal and surely dangerous practice as it was a long-held tradition and the people of the town would have tarred, feathered, roasted, and eaten him had he tried to lift even his littlest of fingers in objection. This colorful metamorphosis was truly a sight to behold.

When the brisk evening of December eleventh finally came to be, I, along with nearly all of the other villagers, gathered in the town square and, packed closely together for the square was quite small and the people quite broad in the beam, greeted one another and cheered and enjoyed cup after cup of scalding hot nog. If only you could have smelled what I smelled that fine evening: the cinnamons, the creams, the hundreds of eggs, the cloves, the nutmegs, the sugars, and of course, the low-grade grain alcohols. You see, the inaugural December Nog Festival was held during an age when rum was not at all available in this corner of the globe, so the rudimentary nogs were generally made with bonded bourbon, or, much more frequently, with home-distilled grain alcohol.

The entire square was lined with rickety booths, each offering their own special family nog recipe. Of course, I followed the lead of the more experienced nog aficionados, or “aficionogos” as they called themselves, and made my way to each and every booth: sipping, sampling, chatting, laughing, making new friends, and, eventually, vomiting. Having never imbibed such great quantities of eggnog spiked with poorly-made alcohol before, my innards were not at all prepared for the vicious onslaught they received. A few of my new friends and neighbors chuckled and slapped my sweatsoaked back as I retched forth a grey, bilious liquid that came from some unholy place deep within my guts. They made lighthearted jokes at my expense and, wiping the tears from my eyes and the slime from my chin, I tried to return their joviality with a warm smile. Those who caught sight of my wet grimace reacted with pure horror. A portly old woman fainted, and in doing so, overturned a nearby nog stall which sent a cauldron of hot nog flying into the crowd, scalding many, myself included.

Due to the ungodly amount of nog I had consumed that night, some of the events that followed are quite vague in my memory, and many are absent entirely. Apparently, the town physician was nearby, but was far too inebriated to be of any help, so I was carted off to a neighboring town some six miles away where their local doctor was able to provide me with what I would describe as brutal, primitive care.

I awoke the next day in a great deal of pain. I looked around at the small, shabby bedroom in which I found myself and tried to speak, but found that I could not. I brought my hand to my mouth and felt some sort of bandage swathing my mouth entirely. I attempted to remove the cloths or straps which bound me, but as I did so, the good doctor entered the room and pinned my arms to my sides. I was absolutely exhausted and could not resist his strength. All I could do was hope for the best. I closed my eyes for a time until I felt the doctor loosen his grip. I slowly opened my eyes to find the old horse surgeon towering above me, wiping the lenses of his spectacles with the hem of his frock.

He looked upon me with an ugly scowl and explained to me what he believed had happened the previous evening. Apart from becoming violently ill from swallowing tremendous amounts of egg yolks and bathtub gin, and subsequently vomiting up several gills of blood, I had also been badly burned from the errant nog cauldron, and I had apparently fallen from the cart several times during my journey which left me bruised and caked in horse muck.

The doctor removed my oral bandages and stuffed no fewer than nine large tablets into my dry, aching mouth which he then bade me swallow. I asked if I might have a sup of water to aid in my swallowing the great mountain of pills, but the doctor simply shook his head. I choked down a few of the girthy pills before giving up and doing what I could to chew the remainder into a thick, bitter paste. Once finished, I thanked the doctor and informed him that I hadn’t the funds to pay for his services. Upon learning this, he quickly and curtly escorted me out of his abode.

As I walked the desolate path homeward, the clouds opened themselves and let down an icy drizzle which chilled me to the marrow of my brittle bones. When I finally reached my cottage, it was night. I collapsed to the floor, utterly exhausted, yet unable to sleep. I eventually worked up the strength to lift my battered frame from the floor and, with shivering, numb hands, did what I could to pile a few scraps of wood into the fireplace and light a fire.

As I sat crumpled on the floor in front of the hearth, I stared into the weak, writhing flame. Suddenly, I heard a knock. I certainly did not want to be bothered when I was in such a state, but again the knocking came from the door of my homely cottage. I struggled up from the floor and shambled toward the door. Upon opening it, I found old Mrs. Toot, the poor crone who, the night before, had lost consciousness at the sight of my wretched, bleeding maw, and had inadvertently catapulted over two gallons of boiling hot eggnog onto me and at least a dozen other poor souls.

She wasted no time in telling me why she had come. She explained that she felt incredibly guilty and ashamed of what she had done. She apologized repeatedly for the suffering she had caused. I tried to calm her and ease her harried mind, but in my condition, it was difficult to muster more than a few words before I was undone by a fit of coughing that rattled me to my very core. As such, I quickly abandoned my attempts to quell Mrs. Toot’s guilty conscience, and I let her say what she had come to say without interruption.

At the end of her heartfelt oration, she handed me a small parcel, apologized once more, and then quickly departed into the black, angry night from whence she had appeared. I closed and latched the door and made my way back to the fireplace where I slumped to the floor in a state of abject weariness. I had nearly forgotten the clumsily wrapped parcel until the sound of it falling from my hand drew my attention. I removed the greasy paper to find a rectangular glass bottle. I turned it over and examined the label. It was a bottle of Escentric 02 by Escentric Molecules.

I didn’t know what to make of this. I understood that the kindly Mrs. Toot had felt compelled to present me with a gift as a physical manifestation of her penitence, but why a fragrance, and why this one? I was much too tired to consider the issue any further. I pulled myself into my tattered armchair, drew it near the smoldering coals, and fell into a dark, lonely unconsciousness.

[soppingwethog]

L'Eau Papier by Diptyque

I’m sorry. I try my best to keep these reviews brief, but that just isn’t possible sometimes. I write what I know. I write what I believe. I provide honest, comprehensive reviews. That is why I am here. I hope you can forgive me for this being a bit lengthy. It is not my intention to be verbose or periphrastic. It is my intention to inform and critique in a fair, even-handed manner.

Several years ago, I found myself employed as a laborer inside the bowels of a loud, dirty factory. I had taken the job as I was in dire need of funds. I know that it is absolutely none of your business why I was in such financial ruin, but at that time, I had to pay for an operation that was neither legal nor performed by a certified surgeon. Alas, sometimes life does not go the way we would prefer and, after an exceptionally challenging period, we find ourselves lying facedown on a makeshift operating table, partially conscious, biting down on a bit of old horse leather while a grizzled war veteran digs inside of our flesh with his patinated set of crude, homemade instruments.

Although this surgery was not as expensive as others, it certainly cost an exorbitant amount to me at the time, and as such, I was forced to take up additional employment in the form of a nightshift at a local industrial manufacturing facility. I did not remain at this factory for long. If I remember correctly, it was a period of less than six months. My goal was to earn the money needed to satisfy my debt to the ornery surgeon and then, with any luck, never see him again for the rest of my days.

The work wasn’t difficult, but it proved to be quite dangerous. I don’t feel comfortable giving the exact name of the company for which I worked, but I will say that my job entailed toiling away on a sort of assembly line with several other people. We spoke very little to one another as the sound within the warehouse was extraordinary. Each of us were required to wear cumbersome ear protection as well as face shields and work bibs or coveralls. The factory employed dozens upon dozens of desperate brutes, yet I only ever knew the names of three of my fellow sufferers.

One of the unfortunate souls I knew by name was a man named Jeffth. I did not know him well. We worked an identical schedule and we had both been hired on the same day. We received the same woefully insufficient training and we were often stationed near one another on the line. We would nod to each other from time to time. That was the extent of our relationship until Jeffth was smushed to death by one of the great hydraulic presses in the factory. What a horrible sight that was. Of course, I felt awful for Jeffth, but I felt exceptionally bad for the cleaning crew who had to shovel up his juicy remains.

Unsurprisingly, work did not stop just because a man had been pressed flat until he perished in a shower of every fluid which can be contained within the standard human corpse. Capitalism’s relentless march toward complete and total collapse cannot be halted by the death of a single worker. Once the janitorial team had washed away most of his wet remains, the machines were fired back up and the cacophony began again. We were directed to continue our toilings until the designated hour of our retirement for the day.

After my shift had ended, the factory supervisor approached me in the locker room as I was changing out of my sweatsoaked work garments. She and I were alone. She asked me how well I knew Jeffth and I explained that we hadn’t spoken a word to each other since the day we had been hired and even then, we had only exchanged a few brief pleasantries. She went on to say that she had heard that he and I had been close friends, that others who worked the night shift with us had reported seeing us nod to one another. I confirmed that we had nodded to each other a number of times, but that in no way meant that we were close in any sense of the word. I told her that I didn’t even know his last name. She then informed me that his last name was Hug and that, as far as the company could tell, he had no living kin or close connections. Upon learning this, I wept.

The supervisor continued. She explained that due to our public noddings, it was likely that I was his closest relation in the world. I couldn’t believe this and I said as much. She shushed me as she pressed her soiled, greasy index finger to my lips. I fell silent. She then stated that since I was Jeffth’s dearest and only companion, it was I who would be tasked with taking possession of the sundry items he had left in his locker. She said that the company had already hired a replacement for Jeffth and that he would be starting tomorrow so it was necessary for me to retrieve his belongings without delay.

She led me to his locker and made me watch as she cut the lock with a large pair of bolt cutters. The severed lock fell to the floor with a dull thud. She turned and looked at me with an expression that I can only describe as hungry. She yanked open the door to reveal two pairs of clean coveralls, an empty insulated mug, a sheet of lined paper, and a small glass bottle. She snatched the slip of paper and quickly stuffed it into her pocket before exiting the room in a hurry.

I knelt before Jeffth’s few belongings and hesitated a moment before carefully scooping them up. I carried the small items in my lap as I rode the train home that morning. Once home, I unfurled the two sets of coveralls. They wouldn’t fit me. I had no interest in keeping them. As I do not drink liquids that require insulation, I had no need for the mug so I threw it out of the open window of my fourth floor hovel as hard as I possibly could. The final item, the glass bottle, proved to be much more interesting. It was, of course, an almost-full container of L'Eau Papier by Diptyque. I held the well-proportioned bottle in my hand and admired its clean design and pleasing weight. I was tempted to sample some of the scented tincture right then and there, but I was suddenly struck by a deep, aching sadness. I felt as though I would be doing a disservice to Jeffth’s memory were I to wear this precious, fragrant elixir so close to the hour of his squishing.

I set the bottle of perfume on top of my chifforobe which, at the time, also served as my bed, and I watched with pleasure as the sunlight hit the curved glass and refracted gracefully, painting my bedroom wall with a truly delightful display of vibrant color. It was a beautiful, doleful sight and one that I shan’t soon forget. If only Jeffth had been there to see it.

[soppingwethog]

Vanilla Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International

Please forgive me. I don’t mean to take up too much of your precious time. I know that we only have a finite number of seconds in our lives and each is as valuable as any other. As such, I hate to gobble up so many of yours, but I hope that the review I provide will be rewarding to you in some way. That is my hope. That is my prayer.

I was recently forced to come into contact with a judge. I say that I was forced to come into contact with them as they are not at all the type of person with whom I surround myself when given any say in the matter. They are rude, thoughtless, brusque, and they seem to take great pleasure in saturating their corporeal form with the most offensive of scented elixirs. I try not to critique people’s taste when it comes to fragrances as we each have our own unique preferences, but this magistrate stinks like a haunted skeleton with a jawful of Big League Chew and it is all thanks to their stupid brain and whatever horrid perfume they slather upon themselves each day.

Rather than providing the judge’s legal name, I will instead refer to them as the Honorable Everett Clamb. It is not my intention to identify them to the world and publicly shame them. They already do that well enough themselves by being a world-class dolt who stinks like they bathe in a mixture of Mr. Bubble and horse disinfectant. Anybody can smell when Judge Clamb is approaching the bench and it is not an exaggeration to say that those of us who have working olfactory centers do what we can to give them a very wide berth.

There are many details about Everett of which I am uncertain. I do not know from whence they came. I do not know their age. I cannot fathom how somebody as uncouth, uncultured, unintelligent, ill-tempered, and intensely malodorous as this preeminent dimwit could ever have secured a job as a justice of the peace. I’m not sure if they attained their position through nefarious means. I haven’t had the time or energy to investigate their credentials just yet, but don’t you worry. I will eventually, and with any luck, I will be able to expose them for the fraud that they almost certainly are. Until then, I will do what I can to stay out of sniffing range which is usually quite easy as I am good at running away from things.

Truth be told, I have only crossed paths with Judge Stinkbug twice, but both instances left a severe impression upon me. Each time ended with me cancelling the remainder of my plans for the day and travelling immediately home where I then bathed several times in an attempt to eliminate the remnants of their acerbic bubblegum stench that had managed to settle into my many hairs.

This may sound odd to you, but I am hoping to meet the slovenly judge again soon. My plan is this: I want to smear a significant amount of Vanilla Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International upon their person without them noticing. Of course, I will do whatever it takes to avoid direct physical contact with them. I cannot begin to imagine how difficult it would be to remove their piercing miasma from me were I to inadvertently touch them with my own precious skin.

Instead, I will be spraying this fine, aromatic oil onto them using a small contraption which I just yesterday purchased from a local toy shop. It is a green, L-shaped bit of hollowed plastic which one can fill with any liquid of their choosing. The toy has a sort of trigger that can be pressed with a rapid curling of the index finger. Doing so causes the liquid within the plastic toy to be issued forth from a small hole at the forward end of the rudimentary gadget in a thin, concentrated stream. If I remember correctly, the shopkeeper said that it was called a squirting gun. Whatever its name, I believe it will work well to covertly spray Everett, the sanctimonious dilettante, with a much more agreeably-scented serum. I will report back with an update once my mission has been accomplished.

It was my intention to end this review with the previous paragraph, and then, if my plans were successful, update you, dear reader, with the details of my victory. However, things have since changed. You may not believe this, but between the time I began crafting this review and posting it, I have learned that Judge Clamb has not only been fired from their position as an arbiter, but it has also come to light that they were not at all qualified to be a member of the court, and all of the books they claimed to have written were in actuality penned by their great-aunt who had authored the set of bewildering texts while under involuntary confinement several years before Everett had ever been squished forth from their mother’s birthing slot.

I am happy to report these facts to you. I feel no small amount of pleasure at knowing that the horrible rule of Everett Clamb has come to an end. I sit now with a sense of buoyant satisfaction as I picture the disgraced judge packing his gavel and powdered wig into a cardboard box and being escorted out of the courthouse by a surly bailiff. The best part about all of this is that I can now enjoy my small vial of Vanilla Musk Fragrance Oil by Nemat International at my leisure rather than needing to use it to block out the saccharine stink of the homely Judge Clamb.

[soppingwethog]

Nitesurf Neroli by Régime des Fleurs

I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about the length of this review. I know it’s wordy, but I hope the sequence and meaning of the words will make up for their great quantity. I would also like to apologize if I come off as a braggart in the body of this text. That is not at all my intention. It’s just that I have a truly wonderful, smart, kind, thoughtful, caring, beautiful girlfriend and to describe her as anything less wouldn’t be honest or fair. I mention my inamorata now as she is a key part of this review. You see, I find it necessary to include a little information about the day during which I first sniffed this one-of-a-kind perfume and she, my beloved, was the angel who initially brought this fragrance into my realm of understanding.

I generally visit the local grocer once a week, on Friday afternoons. I do not enjoy shopping for groceries, but it is a task which must be done if one wishes to prepare and devour home-cooked meals, which is something I very much do enjoy. You cannot have one without the other, as they say. Shopping and eating are both opposite, yet complimentary acts. One is loathsome while the other is rapturous.

Some weeks ago, I made my regularly scheduled visit to the grocer’s shop to find that it was closed for some sort of cleaning. Apparently, several hundred lizards had been inadvertently packed into a pallet of vegetables and once unpackaged, they ran roughshod over the entirety of the establishment, fornicating, defecating, and shedding on all manner of sundry items. Obviously, this required significant clean up and disinfection, and as a result of this, the establishment was shuttered for a number of days.

This unexpected closure caused me to seek my victuals elsewhere. I had heard tell of a new, extravagant grocery, but had never been interested in visiting as I am a creature of habit and I prefer not to deviate from my timetested routines. However, this was an extraordinary circumstance and I did not feel comfortable foregoing food until the shop that I so regularly frequent reopened for business, so I did what had to be done. I marched solemnly to the newfangled grocery store which, luckily for me, was not far.

When I entered the punishingly bright building, I was assaulted with all manner of colorful signs, advertisements, and meandering herds of dullards who seemed to be doing their best to walk as slowly as possible and obstruct my path. It was not a pleasant place to be and I decided immediately that it would behoove me to find all of the items on my list and purchase them posthaste.

As I was gathering one of the final items on my grocery shopping list and carefully loading it into the shiny yet sticky shopping carriage, I was tackled from behind with great force by one of the shop’s armed security officers. Every bit of wind was knocked out of my body and, on my way to the floor, my head made significant contact with a rather sharp corner of a display case holding no small amount of potatoes which then, one by one, fell from their designated perch and came to rest upon my battered corpse.

Luckily, I managed to maintain my consciousness during this tumultuous melee and was able to stand when the guard pointed his service weapon at my groin and directed me to do so. I staggered to my feet. I was bleeding profusely and the vision in my right eye was coming and going in a way that caused me significant worry. I did my best to steady myself and catch my breath. I asked the clearly irritated guard if he wouldn’t mind if I placed the palm of my hand on the gushing wound on my head. At first he shouted and demanded that I not move at all, but once he got a better look at the amount of human fluids issuing forth from the deep, angry gash on my brain box, he motioned with his pistol in a way that obviously meant that he wanted me to cover the ghastly lesion. I did so.

The situation was very tense. The guard appeared nervous and extremely angry, but, against my better judgement, I croaked out a query to the armed man. I asked him why he had done what he had done. I asked him what caused him to harm me so. With a wry smirk on his blood-splattered face, he told me that he had caught me. He said that he saw the eggs I had been attempting to steal. He then directed me to turn around. He reached his sweaty hand into the back pocket of my trousers and pulled out a mess of yolk and shell. I turned back around and told him that I could explain, but I was met with the quivering barrel of his blunderbuss just inches from my face. For a moment, I was certain that he would end me. I thought he would stop my heart then and there, but eventually he lowered his weapon and dared me to explain how there came to be three broken eggs in my back pocket.

I would now like to take a brief moment and state that while I have stolen many, many things throughout my life, this was not one of those instances. The eggs which I had been carrying were not taken from this grocery store or any other. I had come upon them while walking. I discovered a small, damaged nest at the base of a great tree as I had been making my way toward this monstrosity of vegetal commerce. The nest contained four eggs, one of which was broken. I peered up into the branches of the tree, but could find no forlorn adult bird mourning the loss of their unhatched offspring. To me, this meant only one thing, which was, of course, free eggs for me. I quickly pocketed the three remaining eggs and continued on my way to purchase groceries.

I did my best to explain this to the ornery armed gentleman despite the ungodly throbbing in my head and extreme dizziness I was experiencing. As expected, my explanation did not meet his satisfaction and once I had finished speaking, he simply shook his head and dragged me into some sort of interrogation room at the rear of the building. Before I knew it, he had me shackled to a thick bench which was fastened securely to the cold cement floor. He told me to sit silently as he stared at a small screen and scrubbed forward and backward through footage that had been taken on the many closed-circuit television cameras which peppered the ceiling of the building. His face began to sour. He stood suddenly and looked at me with a deep, all-consuming contempt and then left the room, slamming the heavy door behind him.

I awoke some time later, shivering, in complete darkness. I was terrified. I called out and the sound of my voice frightened me. It was hoarse and jagged. It did not sound like my own. I felt very afraid and alone. Just then, I was blinded by a searing light. I tried to shield my eyes from the painful glare, but as my hands were still shackled, I was unable to do so. After a few moments, my vision began to adjust and I saw before me the furious visage of the security guard. With a look on his face that I can only describe as bloodthirsty, he told me that he was being forced to let me go. He said that he knew that I had attempted to steal those eggs, but that I had somehow managed to do so out of view of the store’s many cameras. He grabbed my wrists and unlocked the manacles in a most brutal manner. I rubbed my swollen, discolored appendages and tried, unsuccessfully, to stand. Again, with a sardonic, contemptuous glare, the armed man chuckled and said that I was in no shape to leave on my own. He said that it was store policy that somebody in my condition may only be released into the custody of a guardian. This confused me, but I understood that I would have to acquiesce if I ever hoped to leave this grocery cell.

I again tried to stand. I asked the guard what day it was. Without a word of reply, he pointed to a telephone on the long wooden desk opposite the bench upon which I sat. I carefully made my way toward the desk where I lifted the handset from the cradle and dialed the only telephone number I have committed to memory, that of my benevolent girlfriend. The sound of her mellifluous voice was a curative balm to my many wounds, internal and external. I did my best to quickly explain to her what had happened, and with unremitting love and concern, she told me that she would be there as quickly as possible.

Within a matter of minutes, I was wrapped in the arms of my one true love as she guided me from the bowels of that horrid business into the cool, refreshing outside air. She coddled and pampered me, she whispered beautiful, loving words into my battered ear, she kissed my bruised cheek with a tenderness unmatched, and she blanketed me in a truly sumptuous aroma which emanated from her like the delicate rays of light from a saint. The fragrance I smelled, of course, was a small dose of newly-purchased Nitesurf Neroli by Régime des Fleurs which she had used to anoint her attractive, delicate collarbone earlier in the day.

As we walked home, I thanked her sincerely for her selflessness, kindness, and care. She looked upon me with a smile so beatific and sweet that I was instantly moved to tears. I am proud to declare that there is a love in my heart which no heavy-handed grocery guard could ever extinguish.

[soppingwethog]

You Fleur by Glossier

I’m sorry. I promise. Please believe me. I am sorry for many things, one of which is the length of this review. I do not wish to take up too much of your precious time, but in order to provide a complete, unbiased review of this specific perfume-style liquid, I found it necessary to include some details about my initial impression as well as a little background information regarding the day during which I first came upon this scented syrup.

Recently, I made myself a sandwich. It was a sandwich built upon a base of white bread. On top of the bread I layered one slice of yellow cheese, one slice of red tomato, one slice of green leaf, and one slice of pink meat. I then applied a dollop of beige sauce to the underside of a different slice of white bread and placed it, sauce side down, atop the neatly piled interior sandwich ingredients. I adjusted the topmost bread slice so that it was square with the bottom slice. It was an attractive, sumptuous luncheon meal. Of that, I am certain.

I am not one to rush a sandwich. I construct them carefully and, when I am able, I savor and consume them slowly and sensually. I treat each sandwich with respect and in turn, they often treat me with that same level of respect. They nourish my innards. They enliven my tastebuds. They sate my hunger. They fill me with a sense of pride and dignity. They are one of my top thirty favorite foods I have ever eaten or heard of. They are a simple, yet regal dish and I am proud to say that I have constructed and eaten over two hundred sandwiches in my lifetime.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned sandwich is one of the few which has not worked out in my favor. Please do not get me wrong. The sandwich, or at least the bite that I swallowed, was delectable. It tasted just as I had dreamed it would. The bread was soft and yielded to the tooth. The cheese was sharp and assertive. The tomato was juicy and sweet. The leaf was crisp and vegetal. The meat was supple and fleshy. The sauce was viscous and savory. However, there was a foreign object that had been inadvertently baked into the base bread layer which I managed to eat in my first bite.

I believe now is the appropriate time to make it known that the sandwich of which I speak was made as I was riding inside of an autobus. I hadn’t had time to prepare my luncheon prior to boarding the bus as I often prefer to do so instead, I sat in one of the rear seats and carefully crafted my handsome meal. Some of my fellow riders watched with interest as I built my dish while one or two sneered and made rude comments. I paid them no mind. I was too focused on my work, and I generally try my best to ignore the jealous venom that strangers so often feel compelled to spew forth from their wicked mouths.

As a rule, I generally try not to chew my food too much. I believe that it is a waste of time and excess chewing destroys vitamins and minerals which are held within the atoms and molecules of food. Breaking too many of those molecules open with one’s teeth ruins the nutritional value of any and all edible items. I have become quite adept at chewing very little. My throat is extremely strong and can handle swallowing large, unchewed masses. However, my first bite of the sandwich I had made while riding the city bus proved to be too much even for my muscular throat.

I began choking immediately. I gasped sharply for air, but this only drew the foreign object deeper into my gullet, blocking my airway entirely. I began to panic. I stood and dropped the remainder of my meal to the floor. A man who had been seated near me quickly took up the sandwich I had dropped and began devouring it in a most uncouth manner. The bus driver shouted at me to remain seated. I took a step forward. I began waving my arms. I tried to scream but could produce no sound whatsoever. I was terrified. I felt as though I would collapse. My face felt swollen and misshapen and hot. I took another step forward and looked into the faces of the people seated near me. None of them would meet my gaze.

I continued to stumble toward the front of the bus. I could see the driver eyeing me in the ceiling-mounted mirror. He looked upset. He looked deeply disappointed. It was at this time that a thickset man to my right rose and demanded that I return to my seat. I wanted to explain to him what was happening. I wanted to tell him that I was dying, but, of course, I was unable to produce even the most meager sound from my gaping mouth. I gesticulated wildly which seemed to enrage the girth-stricken gentleman. He took a step toward me and assumed an aggressive posture. I instinctively covered my face with my arms as I have a long history of being thrashed upon by strangers and I have found that they are often initially interested in punching and kicking my face and mouth.

This maneuver worked in my favor. Rather than punching my arm bones which I was using to shield my face, the rotund man instead focused his punishing blows upon my abdomen which, along with breaking no fewer than four of my ribs, caused me to vomit out the horrible bit of metal which had lodged itself so painfully in my most tender throat tube. Once my airway was no longer obstructed, I took the deepest breath I had ever taken and let out a cry so horrific, so mournful, that the man, who had only a moment prior been dead set on pummeling me into nothingness, immediately ceased his violent clobbering. He recoiled and looked at me as though I was some sort of previously-unknown creature that had washed up on an awful, ruined shoreline. He looked utterly disgusted at what he beheld.

At the next stop, I was carried off of the bus by a small group of kind strangers who carefully set my withered remains on a bus stop bench. One of them said that they would call for help, but I waved him away. I told him that I would be alright, although, truth be told, I was far from certain about my condition. One by one, they left me. The last person to leave me was a smartly dressed young woman. Before she went on her way, she gave me her business card which, unfortunately, I have since misplaced. As she leant down to present me with the card, I was met with a truly unique, evocative aroma. I had no wish to offend the young lady, but I simply had to know the name of the fragrance in which she was so delicately enveloped. I asked her and she told me that it was You Fleur by Glossier that she wore. I thanked her for her assistance and she left me forever.

As a postscript to this review, I would like to add that I later learned that the hard, sharp object I had swallowed was likely some sort of small gear or bolt which had fallen from one of the machines into a vat of wet, sticky dough before it had been shaped and baked into loaves in the bread factory. I only came to possess this knowledge after writing several strongly worded letters to the board of directors of the bread manufacturing company. Once they finally replied to my numerous inquiries and thinly-veiled threats, they explained what they believe may have happened that led to me choking on that wretched component. I found their explanation satisfactory, and in exchange for a written guarantee that I would never pursue legal action against any of them individually or the company as a whole, they provided me with a coupon for two free loaves of bread which I thought was a very generous gift. Once my throat is well enough to swallow solid food again, I plan to redeem these special coupons and enjoy two full loaves all to myself. I am sincerely looking forward to that.