Hello New Yorkers!
It’s called deodorant.
D. E. O. D. O. R. A. N. T.
You put it under your arms.
After you shower.
Yes, shower.
S. H. O. W. E. R.
Take one. Please.
Making a grown man cry is only cool if you are Mick’s flavor of the week. (And no, that flavor is not necrosis. Thanks for playing!)
I know, I know, it’s ninety degrees out, and we are all rubbing our 8 millions strong selves up against each other all day–on the subway, on the street, in elevators, in line at Starbucks.
You get the idea.
We’re hot, we’re sweaty. Sweat: it’s a good thing, a sign our bodies are thermoregulating. Our autonomic nervous systems are working.
But…
You notice how you keep getting an entire bench to yourself on a rush hour A train?
New Yorkers, you all smell like you slept with a corpse.
No, really New Yorkers– what are you rolling in before you leave the house?
I ask, because my eyes water every time I have the misfortune to come within smelling distance (about a block for those who are especially rank) of you all. It’s cramping my style, and making me lose my faith in God.
I’m worried about you all.
You’re not staying on top of the funk. Frankly, I’m a tad disappointed in the smelly lot of you.
How hard is it to hose yourself down every twelve hours?
At the very least, you can towel yourself down in a Starbucks bathroom. They let anyone use them. You don’t even need to buy a latte.
I am a deeply, deeply flawed person, and I have managed to keep my BO under control.
If I can do it, so can you.
And you know what? A cleaner, less smellier you will be a happier you. Estranged friends will want to get back in touch. You will get seated at your favorite restaurant. You’ll be able get a job somewhere other than Best Buy. Babies will stop dying in your presence. You will no longer set off car alarms every time you raise your arms.
Life will be good, and you will reach personal heights you never imagined possible.
Love,
Me



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