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Monday, March 12, 2007

Shitweasel Smells in My Crack Motel Room


by Jolie Blond
04/04/01


Every once in a while

as I'm sitting here

in my crack motel room

typing on my Mac,

a waft of shitweasel odor hits my nose.

I jump up.

Turn around quickly,

knocking my chair over.

Smells like an evil spirit in here,

a malodorous visitation

from the land of the dead.


No, no one is there.

I ask the motel manager,

whose kitchen wall we share,

if he's cookin' cabbage.

Smells a little

like collard greens and chitlins in my room, I explain.

No, he's not cookin'.


I sniff my armpits.

No. No worse than usual.

The smell retreats,

skulking back into the walls

or into another dimension

or some such place

where evil skankmonster smells go.


I sit and type,

trying to reorganize my trains of thought.

Oh, yeah. Ok. I got it. I start typing.

No. Wait. There it is again.

That horrible, funky, shitweasel smell.

What the f*k is that smell?


I jump up,

knocking my chair over again.

I go outside,

sniffing at the air.

I ask the angry Haitian's wife in 117

what's for dinner,

but she denies

she's got anything on the stove.


A thousand flies

are swarming the Cabbage Patch whore's

outdoor toilet

under the stairs

in front of Lucy and Ricky Retardo's room,

but there's no odor there.

I come back to my room.

It's gone.


Just to play it safe,

I brush my teeth and gargle.

I change my underwear

and pour baby powder down my fresh drawers.

I run vinegar through the garbage disposal

and ammonia down the shower drain.

I spray disinfectant behind the refrigerator

and onto my sleeping couch.


One of the signs of a brain tumor

is smelling shit that isn't there.

I feel my head for unusual lumps.

Nothing there.


Twenty years ago

I read about a man

who walked into an Ohio police station

with a coathanger
sticking out of a hole in his head.


He'd used an eighth inch power drill

to drill the hole into his head.

He'd been probing around in his skull

with the coathanger

searching for his brain.

He couldn't find it

and wanted police assistance

with the investigation.


Thank
God
I don't own a power drill.

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