Thanks to a freakish combination of genes, surgery gone awry, and physical trauma, I’m pretty damn blind, although it’s leveled out over the years (but I still can’t hit a rising fast ball). So nature compensates for me — I have acute hearing (and a cuter ass), and a nose like a bloodhound. The rest of my face is no bargain, either.
I can identify scents where other human beings can’t even detect an odor. Like a dog, I can smell moods, danger, sexual arousal, etc., as well as identify by name hundreds of scented products like shampoos, soaps, colognes, laundry detergent, polish, deodorant, and those funky little Christmas tree things people hang from their rear view mirrors. After I’ve been around the same office crew for a short while, I can tell from the faintest whiff who just came in the room, and what kind of mood he or she is in.
I learned over the years not to be so quick to mention this talent as it makes people uneasy. They don’t want to hear that the person they’re with can tell that they had sex that morning, or did a sloppy job wiping their asses, or missed a spot with the roll-on, or that they grabbed a shirt out of the dirty laundry basket, let alone that they’re nervous about the howler they just uttered.
So as a result, I’m rather obsessed with my own scent. I rotate colognes with the seasons, and I’m never without. In fact, I’m so picky about this that our early courtship days, Guido suspected I might be gay. Most guys she’d dated before me smelled of red wine, garlic, and goat-lust, with a chaser of olive oil and Camels (the cigarette, not the two-humped beast. That came afterwards). To her, I smelled like a candle store.
So from that perspective, THIS is a bad idea:
America is obsessed with bacon. There’s bacon chocolate, bacon salt, bacon popcorn, baconaise and yes, even BaconAir. The noses over at Fargginay, Inc. thought clearly the next step down the bacon-crazed path would be to smell like bacon and thus Bacon Perfume/Cologne was born.
Bacon Cologne (pronounced BA-cone) is an amalgamation of 11 essential oils, flowers, herbs and, of course, the essence of bacon. — Time/Newsfeed
While I don’t eat bacon any more — it departed my diet 35 years ago when I quit eating refined sugar — I still love its smell, sizzling in the frying pan. That’s where bacon belongs, not behind the ears, or dabbed on the pulse points, or sprayed in the oxters. I love the smell of WD-40, too, and it’s a lot cheaper than the cologne I buy, but I don’t apply it on my flesh although sometimes I feel like my joints could use it. Ditto Windex, Pledge (fresh lemon or natural scent), shoe polish, and Armor-All. And, while you’re at it, anchovies, puttanesca sauce, and a freshly lit Partagas Lonsdale.
Meat products are not colognes. That’s a fundamental truth. A Fact Jack. You don’t ever want to smell like meat, especially in the presence of a hungry carnivore, or a sexually aroused member of species whose meat you smell like.
Finally, I’m here to tell you that south Floridians as a group don’t smell too good. There’s an abundance of sweat that mixes unwell with too many thin and cloying cover-ups, some about as subtle as Coppertone (and sometimes it IS Coppertone) and as inviting as toilet cleaner. But for all that, bacon would NOT be an improvement. Bathing might be. Just sayin’.