The Waste Gland

Last night must have been a new low in personal hygiene for me (those of you who have known me longest know that this must mean a very low low low.

We were out at the bar and I was sweating (but this is like saying "I was breathing" or "I was wearing clothes"). And I had run out of deodorant earlier in the week, having mistakenly bought what turned out to be Nivea body spray (like Axe body spray i.e. it does nothing to mitigate the effects of my smelly armpits).

So I was dancing with my arms up, and I feel like Pepe Le Pew in a rose garden because it's awful. And a Thai prostitute---a woman who has sex with men for money--turns to me, makes a face, and tells me that I am very smelly. Well, now, she might be wearing deodorant, or not sweating like a rotisserie chicken, but for her to call me dirty--this is a low in my life.

Well, obviously I then paid her to have sex and kicked in a little extra to be able to shove my pits in her face the whole time.

No, I went home dejected and took a shower. Then I woke up this morning and took a shower and hopped over to Seven-Eleven and bought a stick of deodorant that ALSO has a horse on it. This is the third stick of deodorant that I've bought in Thailand, from the third different company. Two of the labels have had horses on them. Because when I think of pleasant aroma, I think of a horse stall. Right.

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Still need one more for the Pitchfork Top 500 Singles draft/Top 200 albums draft for later in the month.

Come on, all Americans like lists, right, Nick Hornsby? And we also like gloating, right--uh--Christopher Hitchens? I don't know.

Come play with me.

come come come

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