Reason to Hope for Nuclear Armageddon # 3,402:

May 15, 2009

I'm sitting in a cafe doing work.  Nobody's nearby.  It's just me, the lady, and her tiny son.  I don't know how old he is… but he's old enough to walk… or toddle, I guess.  I could easily eat him in one sitting… so however old that would be, that's how old he is.

The lady walks past, followed by her odd little boy… and as they pass, I am overcome with a pungent wave of cologne.  Thick and musky.  Smells like a nightclub.

There are a few possibilities here:

1.  I'm wearing too much cologne.  Probability: 0.  I do not wear cologne.  I prefer to bleed my own pheromone into the atmosphere.  Plus… I'm not Greek.

2.  The woman is wearing cologne.  Probability: unlikely.  Why would this delicate woman douse herself in something that smells so horridly masculine?  The cologne smells like chest hair and greasy foreheads.  Like guys who bark the word "Jaegerbomb."  This woman probably smells like apples or lavender or something else lady-like.  She's not a musky lady.

3.  The little boy is wearing cologne.  Probability: I'm not sure – but I see no other possibility.  I smelled it when he walked by.  I think he was wearing it.  I'm going to die.  She put cologne on her son.  He's the size of a ham sandwich, and she put cologne on him.  Sweet Jesus, come and take me now.

4.  I've got a brain tumor,and it's spreading rapidly.  Probability: chocolate.  I wonder ifa I have angh tiem to a;sdlkafa ggo goiqjanerlkjahg dfso j;aksd

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