Dawning a Deodorant
I Smell Like a God Damn Lollipop
When life gives you wolf thorns . . .
It should have been a lovely day. It was all so routine.
· Wake up · Shower · Tell the cat he’s an ungrateful, good-for-nothing drain on my finances · Put on deodorant · Head on out the door
It wasn’t until I stepped outside that my day became a dumpster fire. I was strolling to my neighborhood coffee shop to write this mediocre drivel, when I stopped at a park bench to tie my shoe. Before I knew it, my skin was crawling.
Ants! A double dozen of the little bastards, racing up my legs, straight for the body parts where I’m not supposed to have ants. I proceeded to foxtrot, hoping to boogey them loose, but I could still feel the phantoms of their scurrying feet as I sat down to scribble.
I was all ready to begin writing the next great American novel — I call it The Great Gatsby 2: Nick’s Night Out — when I experienced an unexpected excess of wetness.
“Lulu!” An Alaskan Malamute that was boisterously tonguing my armpit and the owner screamed its name. She was tugging on her leash, but the resolute Malamute refused to follow suit.
“I’m sorry. She’s very friendly. Bad Lulu! Bad!”
I wanted to say ‘Maybe you shouldn’t bring your untrained emotional support Malamute into a coffee shop if she has a penchant for armpit lickin’!’
Instead I said: ‘Don’t worry. I like dogs.’
The muse had moved on, so I closed my laptop and left, my pits still soggy with dog spit. Devoid of creative insight, I thought I’d catch a matinee.
‘Surely John Wick Chapter Four will inspire a masterpiece out of me,’ I thought as I stepped through the front doors of the nearest American Multi-Cinema. I was immediately accosted by burly security.
“Nice try buddy. Ain’t happening.”
“I’m over 18 I swear,” I explained.
“No outside food,” he said. “But I’m guessing you already knew the rules. That’s why you’ve got those jolly ranchers tucked under your arms.”
“Jolly ranchers?”
“I can smell the candy from here buddy. You think I don’t know what an open bag of JR Mer-Bears smells like?”
Despite my willingness to be strip searched, I was promptly escorted from the premises.
What could possibly be causing these inimical events? Does the universe simply despise my existence?
Poppycock! The universe loves me. Always has, always will.
It wasn’t until I returned home that I discovered the culprit. My deodorant — the very product that vowed “to unleash the power of the beast beneath” had transformed me into an object of delicious ridicule. I smelled like a god damn lollipop.
I don’t want to smell like a lollipop. I want to smell like a wolfthorn. Whatever a wolfthorn is.
Promises were made Old Spice:
I don’t feel like a sophisticated wolf. I feel like a clown. Strange dogs aren’t supposed to lick my armpits. That’s what I want strange women to do!
I hate to throw out a brand new stick of deodorant. There must be some use I can make of this product . . .
I can now say, without equivocation, that Old Spice Wolfthorn Antiperspirant is not a good deodorant.
But it is, without a doubt, the GREATEST UNDISCOVERD SNACK ON THE MARKET TODAY!
For only $4.49 I have stumbled into a world of flavorsome orangey goodness that stays on my tongue for up to six hours. Unlike popsicles, Old Spice Wolfthorn Antiperspirant doesn’t melt, leaving me with no unpleasant stickiness. I can take this discreet candy stick into movie theaters, sports stadiums, and funeral services without any pesky questions about outside food.
I’ll never have to buy overpriced popcorn again!
The best part? No calories! At least there are none mentioned on the packaging. I can lick this Wolfthorn until the cows come home and still maintain my high school figure!
Old Spice, you’ve done it again. First you got my grandfather laid, and now you’ve revolutionized the snack world.
Who wants a lick?
Enjoyed yourself? Then read this, Stupid:
Also always hilarious Ginger Cook:
