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I've had about 37 ideas lately for a new blog post. They just come to me, these awe-inspiring, magnificently-ingenious ideas. This, however, is not one of them.
Perhaps I shall tell you a story.
People smell. Sometimes they smell good, other times not so good. Take, for example, blueberry girl. Blueberry girl smelled like blueberries, naturally. In contrast with blueberry girl, we have dog-poo-breath girl. Two bits to anyone who guesses her distinct smell! That's only a quarter, or twenty-five cents, which really isn't very much these days. It will get you 5% of a pizza, were we measuring by The Grass Man's standards. But we're not. Sorry to burst your proverbial bubble.
Dog poo doesn't smell very good. The sad thing is that some people just smell like it. This was the problem with dog-poo-breath girl.
It started out like any normal relationship. I was at Lake Powell camping on the beach with some cool folks when these girls walk past the camp. They walk past again. And again. Who could blame them? A couple smokin' hot guys hangin' out with no shirts on. Muscles, I tell you. I'D walk past two or three times...
A day later, I was cruising along on [my] blazing-fast wave runner--I was doing at least 60--when I spot those same two girls just chilling on this beach. So I pull up next to their wave runner, no shirt, mind, and realize I have no idea what I'm going to say. I manage to get my vocal chords to create some noises, and with the gaps in my teeth form the stereotypical guy first-liner: wanna race? Really? That was it?
They snickered.
And giggled.
And said yes.
After spending the rest of the week with these girls, I began fancying one of them. At one point, during an intense-yet-life-threatening tube ride (I HATE tubes), I confessed my ever-growing love for her and asked for her code-name @ server dot com. Amazed she didn't suddenly label me as a creeper, I pulled out a pencil and paper I conveniently had hidden in my swimming trunks (I was topless) and jotted down her contact info.
Weeks later, we began hanging out. I had to drive 2 hours to see her, which I did. We went caving and hiking and patch-adams-watching. The older sibling I like to call Shawn (since that's his name) told me one day, "Dummy, you need to kiss her." That night I drove the two-hour drive to kiss her. That night was also the night I realized her breath smelled like dog poo. It was also the night that she gave me more opportunities to kiss her than I have fingers and toes (18, folks). She took me hiking in the dark, we walked on a beach in our sandals, we watched a romantic movie named Patch Adams. During the movie, I started pretending to be really tired, yawning 2 gazillion times every 2 gazillion seconds (so I'm not very original - sue me) and after the 23rd yawn, she stood up, took my hand, pulled me up, walked me to the door. Last opportunity. With each word she said, I would wait for her breath to find its way safely past my nose before I would breath in. As you can probably guess, I didn't kiss her that night.
Nor the next night.
Nor did I ever speak to her again.
Take home lesson: make sure to always clean your tongue with a toothbrush/electric sander. This is the part where you call me shallow and whatever other mean names you can conjure up in the comments section. Love.
7 wisecrack(s):
Good post Jason! When you said "blueberry girl" I immediately thought of the girl who turned into a blueberry in Willie Wanka and the Chocolate Factory.
Also, do your webbed does really only count as two digits? I'm pretty sure they are still four functional digits, despite their webbed nature.
Finally, I don't think you are shallow. Bad breath is a big turn-off. I once went on a date with a girl who had bad breath, and decided that I didn't want to go out with her again. That wasn't the only reason, but it was a big one.
Isn't dating fun?!
I chose to check "epic" above, because I have not laughed that hard (out loud, mind) at reading a blog post in a while. The last one was your diving blog post...so...good job, The Bell. I like to laugh. That said, I feel bad for that dog-poo-breath girl. Did her breath smell like dog poo on other occasions or was this the first? I'm guessing since this was during the Patch Adams era she is long gone, but I feel safe in advising you not to judge a "book" by its "smell"...which wouldn't be hard if we were talking about actual books, because I think all books smell fabulous. Never have I smelt a book that wreaked like the rear end of a canine. No sir. Knock on wood.
Memo 2 You: Carry a strong kind of mint gum or breathmint, like Eclipse and offer it to any stinky-breathed future potential gf/kissees.
Oh for gross. Bad breath is the worst. But I laughed really hard at this post. All I could think of was the poop I accidentally picked up at work. Ugh. I just shuddered.
It may be shallow, and it may be some other mean name that people may conjure up - but it is true none-the-less. I truly feel that anyone/everyone would be a liar if they said that they could get look past dog poo breath. And I applaud you for your incredibly well written rendition of the fateful dog poo breath girl. Classic.
Gross!
I appreciated the Jason-esk story. When I read it I thought of a girl I know who had cat-pee breath . . .
Robby, yes, my toes only count as one. I feel cooler that way.
The Hess, on the drive home that fateful night, I realized it hadn't just been that night. Someone I knew in college knew her, so I found out that she'd gotten married. I'm sure she has some dog-poo-mouthed kids running around. Sad.
Britt, cat...pee? Uulalhalck!
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