Asscheeks of Death

It's raining heavily now, so a few hours before it rained I just set out wet food for Momcat & Co., and a bowl full of water that I'm sure will become more full of rainwater. I guess that could be worse. Still no black-and-white kitten.

Stress gets the best of me sometimes, and so I do something small but fun usually. A few days ago, after I'd failed miserably at getting anyone but Isabella, withstood cracks at Eviljob, panicked over the grant proposal, and completely forgotten about a review of OPP (other people's papers) that I'd said I would do, I stopped on the way home to buy some fragranced soap.

I'd been thinking about getting this for a while--it's sold in this little bodega-type place that I've been in a few times. It's alleged to smell of sandalwood and patchouli, had some botanical stuff in it, and it sounded good (what I could read of it in Spanish, that is).

Did I mention that I don't know Spanish? I don't. I can muddle through a little bit. Occasionally. I'm all into multiculturalism, but most Hispanics strike me as being from a different planet. A very, very noisy one. I'm cool with it, as long as when I'm not in an ethnic store, I see mostly English around me. When I don't see that (which happens with increasing frequency), I get a little pissed off that my grandparents had to work so hard to learn English just to be employed in professions in which they excelled in any language, and were still made to feel self-conscious all of their lives. And had little of "home" to make them comfortable by way of purchaseables, yet never once complained. But I won't go there. For now, I'm in an ethnic store; I accept that's their turf, and I have to read Spanish, Chinese, Hindi, Arabic, or whatever the case may be.

Butsoanyway.

So I bought it. It's called "Henio De Pravia", or somesuch. I have no idea what "Henio De Pravia" actually means, but I jokingly translated it to myself as "Depraved Heinie" soap.

I should have taken the hint.

I broke it out this morning, and immediately noticed that it didn't smell as pretty as it vaguely did through the packaging. Nevertheless, I gave it a try; I figured perhaps it was the concentrated smell of the bar that was causing me to gag. Of course, I reasoned, once I use it and spread it out, it will probably smell wonderful--I mean, sandalwood and patchouli are sexy-smelling, right?

Not the way the Depraved Heinie Soap Company does it.

My first clue should have been as I was getting out of the shower. To keep Squoosh company as much as possible, I shower in his bathroom now. Usually, Squoosh sits on the toilet (lid closed) or the stepstool near the other end of the shower and looks at me with his head cocked. Today, he was sitting in meatloaf-position on the floor--on the other side of the room.

I dried off, and opened the bathroom to air out the humidity, and Squoosh ran like hell. In retrospect, I don't blame him. I must have become enured to it by that point.

My second clue should have been when I went to pick Squoosh up from the living room. He usually cuddles my chest while I take him back, but today he just sniffed me a couple of times and tried to run again.

At that point, I *should* have jumped back into the shower and gone back to my old faithful Dove. Should have. Didn't.

So as I'm driving to Eviljob, every once in a while I catch a whiff of something that isn't very pretty. Something that brings to mind a slowly-decomposing yak, roasting in the summer sun. Considering that I've never seen a yak, much less a slowly-decomposing one, this is a testimony to the power of the smell. Other times, I can sort of smell sandalwood, so I figure that's the soap.

I look for signs of yak decomposing on the side of the road as I drive.

After I'd been at work for an hour or so, I went to the restroom; as I did my restroom thing, I again smelled yak. A very, very bad yak smell. If I were to own a yak that smelled like this, I would take it back to the dealership. Or to the vet. Or to the dry cleaners.

Filled with dread, I raise my arm to my nose.

Oh, shit. I smell like a very sick, hot yak. And sandalwood. Sick hot yak and sandalwood is a decidedly unsexy smell. Probably even to another sick, hot yak who hasn't gotten any in a while.

So I scamper meekly back to my desk and break out the Aromatics Elixir mini-spray. I coat myself in it, figuring that Aromatics Elixir is strong enough to cover up the sick, hot yak and sandalwood. I hope.

Crap, crap, crap.

I do my Thing and leave, avoiding everyone. I have a meeting up at the school, and I have no choice but to drive up there. So on the way, I coat myself in a Calgon mini-spray I keep in my car for just such yak emergencies.

The person I am meeting with makes a comment about the yak smell. Politely put, but still... "Ancodia, you...ummm...don't smell like you."

I 'fess up about the sick, hot yak. She smells my un-Aromatics Elixir'd shoulder, and says she thinks it smells like sweaty fat asscheeks. I told her I wasn't going to even ask how she knows what sweaty fat asscheeks smell like, but oddly enough the soap is called Depraved Heinie. I think.

She feels the name is appropriate.

I cancel everything else and go home. Romeo is avoiding me. I head to the bathroom. Squoosh is hiding in his cat condo. I don't blame them; they love me, but sick, hot yak that someone's rubbed their sweaty fat asscheeks all over is a tough smell to deal with, even when it's someone you love.

This is a smell that's bad enough that they have abandoned their source of food. It is an evil, bad, Bog of Eternal Stench smell. Avoiding me is probably some instinctive thing.

I jump into the shower and as I wash--several times--I consider whether or not I'm going to have to burn my clothes. As I get out of the shower, Squoosh pays no attention to me; he is staring at my pile of clothes with a wary look on his face. From a distance.

I throw the clothes in the washer, and am tempted to type the description on the back of the package into an online translator. I'm deathly curious at this point. But nothing that the Marketing Dep't at the Depraved Heinie Soap Company could have written could possibly truly do this product justice.

I am tempted to call them, to ask if they plan on expanding into a mainstream English market. I want to offer my services--gratis--as a translator. We need to change the name, first off; Depraved is not an everyday word, I'd suggest. Why don't we go with something more descriptive, like Asscheeks of Death?

Asscheeks of Death, for the discriminating hermit or recluse. Our exclusive formula contains nothing but the finest hand-milled soap, enriched with RYS (TM), Real Yak Scent! Our organic yaks are raised hormone-free in the streets of Compton, CA, where they are allowed to roam freely and graze after being infected with scabies and pellagra. During our summer yak harvest, we at the Depraved Heinie Soap Company hire underprivileged children to chase the yaks through the streets until they are manufacturing perspiration by the truckload, because studies have shown that nothing is better for your skin than sick yak sweat. After our yak are loaded into un-vented trucks and shipped to Guadalajara, they are gently slaughtered, and tossed into a boiling pot along with the finest waters from the Bog of Eternal Stench. We then add only the finest botanicals and sandalwood. Oh--and patchouli. Lots of patchouli. To this exclusive mixture, we then add scrapings from the dirty feet of barefoot orphans, genuine dog vomit, and sweat collected lovingly from the armpits and asscracks of real vagrants, prostitutes, and crackheads who have been roaming the streets of Compton along with our yaks. Asscheeks of Death has been clinically proven to reduce most communicable diseases by virtue of the fact that no man or animal can withstand the scent long enough to transmit anything. Similar clinical testing has proven that Asscheeks of Death may also be effective at reducing unwanted pregnancies, STDs, and friends. Remember--when you think of solitude, think of the Depraved Heinie Soap Company; comparable products may "take you away", but only Asscheeks of Death guarantees that *you* won't have to go anywhere. THEY will.


Yeppers, I think we have an angle.

As god is my witness, I'll never buy bodega soap again.