DuhhhBlond
Duhhhlicious Pants Lady
Bad Whiffs
By Duhhh
Roadkill, and the breath of the vultures that consume it.
Cat shit, and the breath of the dogs that consume it.
Deadened rats boiled in garlic, and the breath of the witches who consume them.
The derelict next to you, silently farting what you know involves dumpster chicken.
Stored memories of semi-ancient smells so foul you involuntarily gag when invoking them.
Software stores.
Anything bearing maggots.
The bag of dog food you left in the trunk of your car and forgot. Then it rained and the bag grew
mushy, festering ‘til you opened the trunk on a hot day.. and wham! it hit you like a freight train.
Green Australian mussels.
The pustulence on your ex-lover, the biker’s, back.
Coffee breath.
Old waxy ears.
Baseball caps rubbed raw from perspiring, bald heads.
Selenium rivers, and the three-eyed fishies that swim them.
Thrushy horse hooves.
Pigs, demonic and shuddering.
The stagnant sink water brimming with black and slimy dishes in your ex-lover, the engineer’s, kitchen.
Ex-co-workers who forced you to hold your breath, as you kindly passed them in the stairwell at the
office.
Depression seeping from the pores of your current co-workers.
Brussel sprouts.
Nefandous snollygosters.
Imaginations of the stench when your ex-roommate who evicted you with a restraining order, finally
cleaned her room and pulled her bed out, where you spitefully pissed all over the corner of it and down
the wall while you were menstruating.
Vehicles in which encased people smoke.
Your dead friend, found overdosed and sweltered in her car, that Indian Summer day in Detroit on
October 5th, 1996.
The kitty litter of seven kitties that you slung inside your first husband's car when it was parked where
it should never have been.
The funky way your first husband smelled after you caught him smoking crack and banging that red-
headed whore, comparable to previously mentioned dumpster chicken.
Fetid morning breath of all your ex-lovers.
The brewery that churns your husband‘s innards and escapes his lungs..
Your second mother-in-law, exiting the porta-potty on the pontoon boat on Norfork Lake.
The discovery of the Jonestown Kool-Aid drinkers.
The penguins’ house at the zoo.
The first cut of a deer you gut.
That studious and homely girl from high school. And twenty years later you approach her at the
reunion, secretly inhaling, just to jog your mind, surprised to find both her rank odor, and your own
rank mind, have diminished considerably.
The peculiar, lingering tang in Room 145 of the hotel you used to bartend at. The chef died in there,
suffering a heart attack and cracking his head upon the dresser. You could also pick up his scent
sometimes in front of the ice machine.
Cow patties, and the dogs that roll in them.
Liquified, squirting cow shit that your neighbors, the dairy farmers, use to fertilize their cornfields with.
Freon gasses leaking from coolers.
Toe jam, the pungent kind.
Necrophiliacs. (for obvious reasons)
Loch Ness Monster. (we still love you, Nessie, even though you reek)
By Duhhh
Roadkill, and the breath of the vultures that consume it.
Cat shit, and the breath of the dogs that consume it.
Deadened rats boiled in garlic, and the breath of the witches who consume them.
The derelict next to you, silently farting what you know involves dumpster chicken.
Stored memories of semi-ancient smells so foul you involuntarily gag when invoking them.
Software stores.
Anything bearing maggots.
The bag of dog food you left in the trunk of your car and forgot. Then it rained and the bag grew
mushy, festering ‘til you opened the trunk on a hot day.. and wham! it hit you like a freight train.
Green Australian mussels.
The pustulence on your ex-lover, the biker’s, back.
Coffee breath.
Old waxy ears.
Baseball caps rubbed raw from perspiring, bald heads.
Selenium rivers, and the three-eyed fishies that swim them.
Thrushy horse hooves.
Pigs, demonic and shuddering.
The stagnant sink water brimming with black and slimy dishes in your ex-lover, the engineer’s, kitchen.
Ex-co-workers who forced you to hold your breath, as you kindly passed them in the stairwell at the
office.
Depression seeping from the pores of your current co-workers.
Brussel sprouts.
Nefandous snollygosters.
Imaginations of the stench when your ex-roommate who evicted you with a restraining order, finally
cleaned her room and pulled her bed out, where you spitefully pissed all over the corner of it and down
the wall while you were menstruating.
Vehicles in which encased people smoke.
Your dead friend, found overdosed and sweltered in her car, that Indian Summer day in Detroit on
October 5th, 1996.
The kitty litter of seven kitties that you slung inside your first husband's car when it was parked where
it should never have been.
The funky way your first husband smelled after you caught him smoking crack and banging that red-
headed whore, comparable to previously mentioned dumpster chicken.
Fetid morning breath of all your ex-lovers.
The brewery that churns your husband‘s innards and escapes his lungs..
Your second mother-in-law, exiting the porta-potty on the pontoon boat on Norfork Lake.
The discovery of the Jonestown Kool-Aid drinkers.
The penguins’ house at the zoo.
The first cut of a deer you gut.
That studious and homely girl from high school. And twenty years later you approach her at the
reunion, secretly inhaling, just to jog your mind, surprised to find both her rank odor, and your own
rank mind, have diminished considerably.
The peculiar, lingering tang in Room 145 of the hotel you used to bartend at. The chef died in there,
suffering a heart attack and cracking his head upon the dresser. You could also pick up his scent
sometimes in front of the ice machine.
Cow patties, and the dogs that roll in them.
Liquified, squirting cow shit that your neighbors, the dairy farmers, use to fertilize their cornfields with.
Freon gasses leaking from coolers.
Toe jam, the pungent kind.
Necrophiliacs. (for obvious reasons)
Loch Ness Monster. (we still love you, Nessie, even though you reek)
