The last two times I’ve gone out to lunch, a 40-something man has taken off his jacket at the next table, and the miasma of corrosive death has wafted–nay, gusted–out at me. Both times I’ve nearly hurled, and I held my gorge while helping dispose of a freezer full of meat that had been unplugged 15 days earlier.
Coats need cleaning, you mephlitic swine!
And if you don’t know who you are, your co-workers and/or wife damn well do.
mmmmm mephitic, mmmmmmmm
I felt I was already in “l” next to those beasts. First time I pit, and I forget how to spell.
Just reading that almost made me lose interest in the very nice piece of pecan pie I’m eating.
Off to smell-check my coats.
I once got a migraine thanks to the stench of stale sweat and years of cigarette smoke coming off a guy sitting next to me in class. I thought I was going to pass out, it was so awful. This guy was also one of those university students who thinks that showers are optional now that they don’t live at home and that pyjamas and torn t-shirts are acceptable clothing to wear in public. So nasty. Had the class not been completely full, I would have changed seats. As it was, he came in late and took one of the last seats available 
They need to invent a stink-detector device. You can swipe your clothes, ass, breath, or armpits across its laser beam and it will tell you how stank you are.
Because obviously people simply don’t know, but they need to be told.
Ü
q
You should probably consider patronizing more upscale establishments.
Was this the same guy or two different guys? What are the odds you’d sit next to two stanky dudes?
But would these be the same people as in that one thread about how it was perfectly fine to not bathe and just go around smelling bad?
I was in class with a guy like this who also compulsively gnawed on a huge callous on his knuckles. Bllleeeuuuuucchhh.
Two different towns, two different cuisines, two different price points. And they sat, or were seated next to me.
Evidently I’m batting 1.000.
Best response evah!
{{{hugs}}}
Seems like it’s always smokers. Don’t get me wrong, the coats also smell like dirty coats, but with a rank gray cloud of stale smoke around them. Smokers, in my experience, have very little sense of smell.
The worst smell (besides death and composition, of course) is when they smoke part of a cigarette and keep the other part. Eeeewww, stop doing that.
Did you say anything?
Don’t get me wrong. I know it’s socially awkward and uncomfortable to say “buddy, you stink. For the love of Og, take a shower, wash your clothes, and get your jacket dry cleaned,” but he’s not going to take a hint. If you want him to change his behavior, you have to make it clear that his behavior is unacceptable.
It’s easier when it’s someone you already have a relationship with, but even a stranger may have second thoughts when you declare “Holy Jesus, man, you stink!”, pick up your stuff, and move to another table.
Or, just rant. That’s okay too.
Makes mental note to have jackets cleaned. I’m a smoker and I try to not offend, thank you for this reminder.
From the other side of this, I hate going to my husband’s aunt’s house for Christmas Eve each year - there are usually six or seven smokers there, and they puff away inside the whole time we’re there. I try to remember to wear a washable jacket - parkas are hard to clean, but since it’s Christmas in Calgary, it can be -30ºC when we go there, so I do have to wear some jacket. I’ve had good results with putting my parka outside to get aired for a couple of days after spending time in their house, but I’d rather not get all stinkified in the first place.
Some people have a stink problem that goes beyond normal hygiene apparently. That said, I had a professor in college who reeked in a way that didn’t smell normal for a human being. I have no idea what his deal was, but he was famous for his smell. Plus, bad breath. Unfortunately, also, he was a very sweet man and I was sad for him that he smelled so ghastly.
There’s a teacher character in The World According to Garp named Tench, I believe, and the insensitive little brats at the boarding schools always called him Stench. My poor professor; after all these years I can’t recall his name, but if he crosses my mind I always think of him as Mr. Stench, the stinky statistics scholar.
When I was a waiter, once or twice a year I’d get an elderly couple who reeked of mothballs. I gave them the benefit of the doubt and assumed it was their clothing.