HYGIENE HUMOR

My Friend’s Mortal Sin

A malodorous story

I first became aware of Louie’s odor at church during Catholic mass. It felt like the fumes were coming from his armpits, where his white, short-sleeve shirt was bleeding perspiration. In addition, his hairy ears had plenty of waxy buildups, so I wasn’t sure which part of his body had smelled.

The priest talked about the difference between venial and mortal sin. But I couldn’t follow the priest's line of reasoning because I was too busy inhaling my best friend’s stench. It smelled worse than a dog’s butt—a combination of all the noxious odors humans can’t tolerate.

I turned my head to the right to suck in the fresh air. Luckily, no one was sitting there, although I’m sure the people in the front row were catching my friend’s overripe drift.

Louie’s a big fan of onions and chilies. He puts too much garlic on his pizza, too. But he’s never stunk this bad in the thirty years I’ve known him. Maybe he has a flesh-eating disease? Perhaps it’s undiagnosed acid reflux?

They say you can’t smell your own stink because you have adapted to your body’s noxious odor. That must be true because Louie sat there reading the bible, singing from the hymn book, and doing his best good Catholic imitation, unaware he was killing his longtime bro with his ungodly scent.

The smell got so bad that I associated everything in the church with body odor. I looked at the priest, and I almost gagged. The organist smelled of rotten eggs. The ladies with big hats in the front row were cutting cheese.

I considered moving to the far end of the aisle. And then, I could tell him I was eager to put a tithe in the collection bucket. But everyone knew I resented the idea of giving money to the church, and Louie wouldn’t buy that.

The priest handed out communion, so everyone lined up at the altar rail. This meant I had a short reprieve from the toxic dumpsite known as my friend. I thought about ducking into the confessional and then escaping the church through the backdoor.

But that wouldn’t work, either. I know Louie. He’d be worried sick and leave mass to search for me. He may stink like a sewer, but he’s a caring and loyal friend.

After communion, I sat next to Louie and held my breath as long as possible without turning blue.

“Are you alright, Harry?” asked Louie.

“Yeah, just a little feverish. I’m not sure if it’s COVID or just a cold.”

Louie looked worried that I might give him COVID.

“Harry, if you‘re sick, you better go home and rest. Don’t worry about me. I’ll get a ride home from the deacon and his wife.”

It smelled worse than a dog’s butt — a combination of all the noxious odors human beings can’t tolerate.

As I left the church, Louie’s odor lingered in my sinus cavity. Did he not wash his feet? Does he have crotch rot? I realized he’s getting up in years, and some older men neglect to wipe their ass sufficiently. Could his odor be attributed to faulty anal hygiene? Perhaps I’ll buy him a case of TUCKS for Lent.

A week later, I tried to bring up the issue indirectly. I told Louie about how some people develop body odor when they age. Unfortunately, he didn’t get it. He thought I was referring to his wife.

“I know,” Louie said. “Marsha’s vagina smells unpleasant, sort of musky, and a bit like stale beer. Her gynecologist told her it’s vaginosis, which comes from an old yeast infection, but don’t quote me on that.”

“Sorry to hear about your wife’s vagina smell,” not wanting to hear any more details.

It was at that point I gave up my faith. I promised myself that I would never set foot in a house of worship again. I didn’t care if I was going to hell with a bunch of atheists. Those sacred walls filled with painted glass will always remind me of Louie’s robust bouquet. It will haunt me till my dying days, and I’ll have olfactory hallucinations whenever I’m anywhere near a practicing Catholic, even a choirboy.

© 2021 Mark Tulin

For more humor from Mark, read The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories.