I can’t stop spraying Febreze. First it was just around the house; spraying the couch, rugs, clothes, underwear and well whatever needed freshening. I love the smell so much I started spritzing it on myself, first as a deodorant (it actually works really well) then in my hair, on my wrists and neck. Every morning I spray myself head to toe in the luxurious mist – the original scent or “unhampered linen windows” are my favorites. I carry two bottles with me wherever I go plus a back-up rigged to my bra. But now I can’t stop spraying other people; usually strangers or anyone near me. A man in line ahead of me at the grocery store caught me sniffing him after I covered him in a mist of Febreze. I sprayed a group of trees out my car window as I drove through a nature preserve. Yesterday I was spraying a bunch of construction workers and just as I was about to take a whiff of one of the men’s sweaty dirt-covered sweatshirt, I fell forward and landed face first with my nose deeply nestled in his gloriously refreshed back. He threatened to call the police if I didn’t get off of him immediately. I quickly steadied myself, and ran off spraying the sky in one mighty streak of freshener. There are posters up around town warning of an unknown woman armed with bottles of fabric freshener and a phone number to report me. Last night I snuck into the local fire house and sprayed the fire fighters as they slept. Just as I was finishing my final spritz, the siren sounded, waking everyone. Luckily, I dashed across the room in time to fly down the pole and shimmy out the bathroom window. This morning it was in the paper that I had struck again as I left an industrial sized bottle of Febreze next to one of the cots. I can’t leave my house as the neighborhood watch has organized some kind of high alert stake-out around town and I’m running out of things to spray.
Glory Of The Spritz
Dear Glory Of The Spritz,
How horrible to be confined as you are! This brings me to a bit of a situation I got into not too many years ago. Hendrich, my beloved, may he rest in peace, had an old school chum who later became a business associate. Olaf was often invited over for dinner at our house and soon Hendrich was inviting him along on our kite escapades, picnics, swap meets, you name it, he was there. Olaf had the worst halitosis I’ve ever encountered. His breath was so rank it could fell an elephant. As Olaf was clearly not going anywhere, and I couldn’t break my Hendrich’s heart by telling him of his friend’s offense, I had to find a solution and quick. I went to the store and stocked up on every breath mint and freshener I could find. When Olaf came to dinner I crushed up a box of mints and mixed it into his drink (of course insisting he imbibe before engaging in discussion.) When we were all out and about, the moment Olaf opened his mouth to speak, yawn, eat, really anytime, I would toss in a few tiny yet powerful time release mints prescribed to CPR instructors and garlic enthusiasts. I was so precise with my toss that Olaf never even knew what happened; at the most he thought he had swallowed a gnat or ladybug in which case I assured him he was delusional and that everything was fine. Yet, sometimes both these methods were not enough, so out came my vials of breath spray. These bottles were so tiny I could hold two in the palm of each hand without being seen as well as another 20 in my pockets, hair, and bra. Upon greeting Olaf, I would kiss him on the cheek while using the other hand to fire off a few spritzes in his mouth, then cover it up by laughing and popping a candy in his mouth to distract him. If I couldn’t get up close to him, I would wait until he was looking the other way talking to Hendrich or himself (he really never shut up) and I would use both palms and spray a stream of breath freshener into his mouth. He never noticed this as I added a slight anesthetic to the freshener which wiped out 5 seconds of his memory. I became so used to minting and freshening, that I began to use these practices on others from the grocer to people sitting on benches and, well, everyone I passed while singing “I Feel Minty, Oh So Minty…” to the tune of “I Feel Pretty.” Eventually the spray caught up with me as rumors of minty forgetfulness began to circulate in town. The next thing I knew, I was caught on video running through the pet store, spraying mouth freshener with both palms into the mouths of all the dogs which unfortunately caused them to bark in high pitches at an accelerated speed. I made a deal with the police to surrender all mint related paraphernalia and sit in a room with 15 halitosis test subjects for a week as penance. After that week I think I lost my sense of smell for a year or so, but back to you. You must not let society confine you to a life of shame. Embrace who you are: a Febreze addict! Go forth into the public doused in as much Febreze as you are able. Spray your bottles of freshener from the roof of your house! The hood of your car! The top of each hill! Explain, to them you mean no harm and explain the benefits of using the freshener. (Make sure you do this from a safe distance, ideally a few blocks away with a megaphone.) Once they see that you are simply a bit wacky and not dangerous they will listen, or at least probably not arrest you. Maybe they will even try spraying some Febreze themselves. Though, I wouldn’t hold your breath on that score. Have you thought about a side job at a fabric or carpet store? You would make an excellent stock woman, spritzing and refreshing the inventory all day. Perhaps even a greeter to spritz customers’ wrists with Febreze. You could be a pioneer! The department store perfume sales women are a thing of the past. The future is Febreze!
I found my wife’s book of daily goddess affirmations and couldn’t help but take a peek. When I opened the cover, it was a notebook filled with horse racing schedules, bets, wins and losses as well as phone numbers and some notations. From what I could make out, her favorite horse is “Taffeta Trots” but she hasn’t been doing too well. Apparently another horse “Galloping Goiter” got into a bag of sugar and punched “Taffeta Trots” in the face with his hoof, jumped the fence and ran off. “Galloping Goiter was banned from the track but “Taffeta Trots” continued to race although, at a slower speed. There were initials written next to a few races followed by “sell car” and “remortgage house.” Then I noticed our bank’s name and account number with -$75,000 in bold. I called the bank and it turns out the college fund for our two kids had been cleared out. The last check written was to Mrs. Elthaway for $50,000 with “Kid’s Juice Boxes” written in the memo. Mrs. Elthaway is the head of the PTA and our son’s math tutor. Yesterday I followed my wife to the grocery store and ended up at a horse track. She was there with a bunch of other women all furiously filling out betting forms and heckling rival jockeys. It was the entire PTA! Then Mrs. Elthaway showed up, tapping a metal crop at her side as they all handed her envelopes full of cash, checks and, in a few cases, their husbands’ golf clubs. Turns out that Mrs. Elthaway is the bookie and the rest are fellow gamblers. I left before they spotted me and headed home. In the middle of the night my car was repossessed, someone left a lock of horse hair labeled “Taffeta Trots” on our doorstep and my wife disappeared.
All Bets Are Off
Dear All Bets Are Off,
A fine mess you are in, indeed. Aside from my own bingo gambling problem that you might remember, I went through a similar ordeal with my friend Gemma. Gemma and her husband have three rather sticky and tiresome children in the local elementary school. Several years ago, I must have been about 33, I noticed that every time I visited Gemma she was baking. There would be racks of brownies cooling next to cake upon cake while sheets of cookies sat in the oven. She looked exhausted yet would speak faster than an auctioneer and her eyes were bulging out of her head. On my way out of the house one day, I passed her son Brent who was muttering to himself “never stop baking, must sell out the bake sale, perfect bake sale.” Around that same time, Gemma got a fancy new car, was practically dripping in diamonds and other jewels and told me of plans to move into a bigger house, well, actually a mansion that a few royals had quit. So, I decided to tail Gemma and find out what was going on. After dropping the children at school, she met up with a bunch of women behind the gymnasium. They spoke for a few minutes then all got in their cars. I followed them as they went from school to school holding bake sales almost all day. A tall, frizzy-haired woman, “Harriet,” I think, seemed to be in charge. Every time they left a school, the women gave Harriet a large envelope of cash and then she portioned it out to each of them. Gemma was clearly the top baker as not only did she get a cut in front of the other women, but also another was left in her mailbox at home. After a few days of following the group, I dressed up as an ice cream man, truck and all, so as to not arouse suspicion; I confronted Gemma. She admitted to being part of a bake sale ring with her book club that was made up of the parents of other children in her sons’ classes. Harriet, as I suspected was the head of the book club, the school’s librarian and the don of the baking ring. The baking all started innocently enough but once they saw how much money they were making, they got bigger and stronger. Gemma said that if they didn’t sell a certain amount at each bake sale, Harriet would cite their children for overdue books and throw them in detention. Though I told Gemma she had to get out of the baking ring, she refused saying the money was too good and offered me a cut of the money. The next day I told a bunch of the local bakeries what had been going on and wouldn’t you know it, the bake sales suddenly vanished. Gemma didn’t talk to me for a few months but she finally contacted me after losing her house, car and moving into a boarding house. Our friendship was back to normal again. So my friend, I quite empathize with your predicament. First, you must find your wife. She’s either at the track gambling, (she probably cashed in your life insurance policy) or she’s being held by Mrs. Elthaway. I’d go with the track, given her history and obvious non-existent impulse control. Take away all her money, credit cards and keys then lock her in the bathroom. Find Mrs. Elthaway and tell her one of the women in the “PTA” is an undercover FBI agent and it’s a matter of hours until she’s arrested. Mrs. Elthaway will be too grateful for the heads up so that she can flee the country, she won’t ask who the fed is or how you know. Next, go to the bank and explain that your wife was a victim of identity theft and you want all the funds put back into your accounts. Once you get back home, tell your wife to take up pottery or just stop gambling before you put her on a reality television show.
I’m a 22 year old sturdy type man named Cleatus in a bit of a pickle in a jam jar situation, if ya catch my drift. This morning, me and my girlfriend thought it would be fun to make snow angels. Well, one thing led to another and now we think she had frostbite on her lady parts. Bein’ a minister’s daughter and all, Lizbeth’s too embarrassed to write this herself. I tried getting’ her to go to a doctor but the only doctor in town is her aunt who is also the mayor. If her dad finds out, we both will be sent to live on an oil rig or worse – with her sister who is the sheriff. So, I took her to the town veterinarian, who is also the local dairy farmer and sworn to secrecy as I helped him out of a particular cattle stampede last year that destroyed the Annual Grass Whistling Festival and injured a few chickens. The veterinarian took one look at my girlfriend and passed out. My cousin owns a pharmacy which is run by his wife who is also the town’s dentist and notary so she suggested some stuff and can’t say nothing cause o’ that doctor oath. I carried Lizbeth back to my shed and started trying them remedies. First, I put her in a hot bath but she immediately kicked me in the teeth and jumped out yellin’ like a hog at feedin’ time. I gave her some salve used for the cows when them udders get bad; it just made it worse. Nothin’ is workin’, even the ten electric blankets she’s wearing like undergarments. Lizbeth isn’t feelin’ too well and I’m gettin’ real worried.
Your poor girlfriend! I can’t help but recall a ski trip I went on when I was but 16. My friends and I decided to go to Switzerland for winter holiday. We met a few local young men who were rather dashing. One, in particular, named Sven who was a 17 and recited poetry like a man speaking backwards during a fit of hiccups. Anxious to capture Sven’s attention, I pretended to be an expert skier. Well, the first day on the slopes, I looked like Julie Christie in “Doctor Zhivago” though slightly shorter and with brown hair. We all took off down one of the most dangerous trails at a lightning pace. Having no experience skiing, I just smiled and hoped for the best. That worked for 2 seconds. Within a few feet I hit a mogul and went flying into a tree, then rolled down the mountain and off a cliff. I was stuck in the snow alone for what seemed like days, but was only a few hours before anyone found me. My hair was the first thing to freeze and broke off in tiny bits which I later ate. Luckily, I managed to make a fire with the lighter and cigarettes in my pocket. By the time Sven and my friends found me I only had hypothermia and 5 of my toes were stubs of ice. The town doctor was able to save them by means of extensive hypnotherapy. Come to think of it, I’m not sure they were really ever frozen. Anyway, Sven took care of me and the two of us did a bit of indoor romping around. (I secured earplugs so as to never hear a word or poem he uttered.) Ah, what a lovely time it was…though I forgot about the earplugs and had to have them surgically removed a few weeks later. But back to you, Cleatus. Given the extremely close-knit nature of your community, your only option is to sneak Lizbeth across to the next town and find a hospital. I suggest wrapping her up in an old burlap sack and throwing her in the back of a truck disguised as some wounded animal. Once you get to a hospital, tell them to try the “anti-gravity whirlpool.” That contraption has saved my life on a few occasions and should heal Lizbeth’s lady parts in no time at all. When you return, if anyone asks where Lizbeth has been, tell them she has whooping cough or typhoid and is trying to avoid exposing others. Everyone will be too scared of infection to question you further and will probably ignore you for a few months as well. Hang a quarantine sign on your door and enjoy some indoor activities with Lizbeth.