"...And you will know her by the trail of funk"

I was at work on Thursday morning when I heard a voice that was both grating and eerily familiar: "Can you help me, please?"

I looked to my right and instantly wanted to burrow through the concrete floor to safety. It was her, the smelly lady, scourge of everyone in the local retail field.

This woman stands about 5'5", has long gray hair pulled into a ponytail, and wears -regardless of the outside temperature - men's boxer underwear as short pants. Oh, one more thing: SHE SMELLS LIKE THE DEVIL'S BEER FARTS!!! Oh, sweet merciful jack o'lantern, she reeks of the funk of the eternally damned. She smells like someone gutted a skunk and filled its rotting carcass with tainted poultry brine. Her stink could knock Mark Foley off a seventeen-year-old's cock.

She asked me to get something off of a high shelf for her. I obliged, but I openly held my breath the entire time. I made no effort to hide the fact that I didn't want to breathe in her hellish odor. She didn't deserve my discretion. Fuck her for leaving the house smelling like a fetid rag used to wipe the top layer of grit from Kevin Federline's foreskin. A dirty sanchez from Screech would have been less a shock to my olfactory senses than her stank ass.

I handed her a bottle of some rotgut shit and abruptly made my exit. I went upstairs and watched from the overlook as the putrid woman proceeded to make our hapless cashier supervisor sorry he didn't die in his sleep the night before. It's funny when it happens to someone else.

Before anyone thinks I'm picking on the less fortunate, let me make it perfectly clear that this woman drives to and from our store in a brand new car. By god, if she can afford a new car, she can afford to introduce her pits and ass to a bar of fucking soap. Or maybe she could fill her bathtub with water instead of urine from the Hounds of Hell. That's just a thought.