Dear, Garbage Truck Snail Trails
My car’s air conditioner is broken and, seeing as it’s summer, it get’s abnormally hot in my car. This is why I would like to thank you, Garbage Truck Snail Trails, for being the slimy streak of goop that, for some reason, follows the exact path that I have to drive; like a Yellow Brick Road that’s been paved with a Jack Lalanne Power Juicer stuffed with dirty diapers and moldy food. There is nothing I appreciate more than trying to cool down in the hot summer sun, driving fast as to scoop in some cool air through my lowered windows, and getting punched in the face by the pungent scent of a garbage truck’s anal leakage.
Also, I can’t begin to express how appreciative I am of your snail trail’s defiant attitude toward dissipating under the sun and, instead, choosing to linger around for hours after it has been streaked across a road. Your courage in the face of a mighty life creating and life taking star that can, within minutes, evaporate 1-inch puddles after a heavy rain is a testament to your strong upbringing in hell’s bubbling, demon-stirred caldrons of malevolence and ass rot.
My $50 thing of cologne? The smell fades off my shirt within a half hour. Your mish-mash of trash that’s stewing in a concentrated broth of 1,000 nightmares? 7 hours of tear-inducing nasal torment.
There are many ways to describe your stench, but using words like malodorous, foul, offensive, rancid, or F*ck You just don’t seem to explore the depths of your repulsiveness (also a word that isn’t good enough). No; the best way to describe you is by painting vivid mental images of some of life’s worst, most horrific moments, then boiling them down in to a single tragic smell – the kind you can taste on your tongue as if you were licking the pavement your juices were splashed upon. When I want to describe you, I usually tell people try to think of how finding out you have 3 days to live smells like, or what the raw emotion of watching your family being ripped apart by cyborg bears would smell like if you distilled it, bottled it, and sold it at one-hundred bucks a pop next to some almost equally foul Drakkar Noir. So that’s probably the best way to describe you: Unimaginable Tragedy Screaming, a new scent by Calvin Kline.
P.S. – Specifically, please stop spilling your juicy garbage load all around my favorite sandwich shop as I eat, like you’re some kind of witch forging an invisible protective barrier as to ward off any and all that dare eat carbs.