Get Your Stink On

I despise Glade in all forms and fragrances. I do not want it in a can. I do not want it in a pan. I will not plug it in the wall. I do not want your Glade at all. And that thing that looks like a big red deodorant in a dunce cap scares me. You have to actually take care of those things. Like a pet. You have to keep raising the white plastic hat it wears or it will die. But eventually it dies anyway, shrinking into a black mushroomy mess that still reeks. And guess what? Your shit still stinks.

Peach Blossom? Spring Meadow? I don't think so. This potpourri of poison causes my throat to close until I succumb to a post-nasal apocalypse involving projectile mucus and lots of rib-wrenching coughs. And I usually get an instant headache. Oh, blah whatever on your she's-so-sensitive retort. Fine, I'm sensitive. And you're killing me. Maybe I'm the Kerry-in-the-coal mine, raising my beak in protest of being spray-gunned down by people who want their toilet to smell like an apple.

Seriously, people, that stuff is toxic with a capital T. Do you think it's a coincidence that it rhymes with Raid? Or that it's made by SC Johnson Wax? Don't they make Pledge, another can of death that regularly adds life-destroying spice to the air? (Totally off subject: why is it called Pledge? How many bucks says it's to remind women of the pledge they took to obey their husbands? Or is it a sorority thing? If anybody knows, you must write to me and tell me. I swear, I will send you a prize.)

I do appreciate the sentiment behind the whole cover-up-stinky-ka-ka thing. Let's face it, poop smells like shit. But spraying a totally synthetic chemical that mimics roses creates fake rose-scented poop, not a field of flowers in which you escape the putridness of your digestion to a Calgon-take-me-away kind of moment. And it's actually really bad for you. How bad? Well, you'll have to consult Al Gore for the scientific analysis. I'm just the attractive snipsmodel for the cause. And how cute do you think I look when I'm having an asthma attack? All's I know is I taste chemicals on my lips within seconds of being exposed to those cloying vapors of doom. Open the window, fer chrissake, and be done with it. Or buy some citrus essential oil-based spritzers that all the health food stores sell nowadays.

Well, thanks for bearing witness to my public service announcement. I needed to say that because I have a housemate who keeps reasserting his can of goddamn Glade back on the bathroom counter every time I diplomatically move it to beside the toilet instead of the bio-hazard bin. And yes, I am going to tell him that there are healthier, less suffocating options if he wants to engage in the fantasy known as you-totally-can't-even-tell-that-I-was-in here-for-the entire-sports-section-crapping-my-butt-off. I may even buy it for him. Afterall, my bedroom is right next to the bathroom. Or I could just light an unscented candle and pray that he keels over in a cloud of Pumpkin Spice. One can only hope.