Inde-Scent Exposure

She boards the bus: A woman in shiny black snow boots, a wrap fit more for a night on the town than a bus ride up it, an overly teased semi-strawberry blonde bouffant hairdo, large earrings too sparkly for 7:30 (either a.m. or p.m.), and brings with her the overbearing, loud odor of a noxious perfume about as appetizing as the stench of a gym sock worn by a rain-soaked summer marathoner with a raging case of athlete’s foot.
He boards the bus: A man dressed in drear, a face bereft of any signs of life, and shoves Madame’s malodorous contribution aside with his own fascinating blend reminiscent of an ancient ashtray in which half-smoked cigarettes are pressed into sticky, dried-up beer residue.
The competition is fierce, and I cannot name a winner.
Still, as much as these senseless cretins assault my sense of smell, it’s nothing compared to the assault on my sense of taste. (And no, I do not mean “taste” insofar as their outfits were concerned, although of course I mentally gave the woman offender a few makeovers for the duration of her ride, which fortunately was only a few stops.) You see, I actually tasted their respective stinks, and believe it or not, gym socks and cigarettes do not make for a delightful mouthful. If these bustards had any class at all, they’d at least smell like hash browns sprinkled with freshly ground Telicherry pepper or eggplant parmigiana.
I don’t ask for much.