AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello dear fans, casual readers and pervs looking for semi-nude photos of Ashley Garmany. On your computer screen sits a three-part series of semi-short, semi-fiction and hopefully all-the-way funny story called "The Worst Smell Ever." I drunkenly wrote this in about 90 minutes—an eon in KC Time. I hope you enjoy the change from penis jokes to something else.

Part 2 of 3

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Every time I walked by the kitchen I caught a whiff of something dead. I couldn't understand what is was, where it came from or how something could smell so badly.

Since I was a full-time student, full-time journalist, full-time boyfriend and a part-time bartender I didn't really own too much free time. My roommate cleaned the whole place a few days earlier. The CSI: Miami team wouldn't have been able to find a speck of dust or spilled grape jelly (which usually stays on the floor for days when I'm in charge). Still, for some reason, the place reeked.

Eventually, the stench worsened. Was my roommate butchering people? Crapping in the sink? Hiding gefilte fish in my silverware drawer? What could it be?

I opened the fridge. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe some expired mayonnaise, but I snorted some. I checked the garbage disposal. We hadn't used it in months because I dropped a nickel in there and we were both too afraid to stick our fingers in there because of the possibility of somebody randomly coming into the kitchen and accidentally turning on the grinders.

I figured, now was the time. I locked the door to ensure my fingers' safety. I closed my eyes, prayed and stuck my precious digits in the garbage disposal. I pulled out the 1992 nickel. Nothing. The nickel didn't even smell bad, even though it was the color of a penny and scratched to hell. I gave the garbage disposal another whiff.

I looked into the dishwasher. Smelled like soap. I peered under the sink. Nothing but old mousetraps and Safeway bags. I searched the bathroom. Maybe the stank come from there. Nothing unusual. As I said before, I was a full-time boyfriend so it was my job to keep the bathroom clean, the lid down and the buttwipe stacked. How women use so much toilet tissue, I'll never know.

The perfidious perfume couldn't be a broken sewage line. I know poop when I smell it, and this was not poop. It wasn't vomit either, but it could be soon, because I felt on the verge of puking.

I returned to the kitchen, feeling like a flustered Sherlock Holmes. I opened the oven, nothing in there. The toaster was okay. In the fifteen minutes I started this odor hunt, the smell grew stronger. It definitely wasn't poop. It certainly wasn't a rotten egg. Old spinach? A dead mouse?

I looked at the drawers under the oven. Nothing. Some pots and pans we never used. The cabinet next to it was more pots and pans. On our counter we reserved special spots for our food, but none of those stunk. I cringed, as the smell happened to be worse on my side. I hoped this would be another thing I could blame on my roommate.

The microwave looked like somebody took pleasure in sticking small animals in there and watching them explode, but even that wasn't the source of the awful aroma. Plus, the microwave belonged to my roommate, so effed if I cleaned it for him.

I cracked open a can of PBR, but gagged. The whole apartment smelled even worse, so there was no way I could drink my fifty-cent pilsner. I put the plug in the sink and tossed the full beer in there. I ran outside to gasp some fresh air. I hoped a few minutes the place would smell like an old bar, not a killing field.

The balcony didn't stink, so I couldn't even blame my downstairs neighbors. I wrapped a hanky around my face and re-entered. I double-checked everything. Fridge, sink, under the sink, the oven, microwave and even the silverware drawer. I looked for rotting wood around the floorboards.

I spun in a circle, pulling on my beard and doing the best to huff'n puff through my mouth. My tongue and throat started watering, meaning I didn't have much time before I hurled.
For the third time, I pulled open cabinet. First looking for things, then smelling. We'd filled the junk drawer with pizza delivery coupons and rubber bands. Nothing. I inspected the silverware drawer. Maybe something small caused this olfactory offense. I opened the fridge and freezer. Nothing. Fact: frozen stuff doesn't stink.

I ripped the oven open, the microwave and even the random pots and pan cabinet. As a Brazilian Jiu Jitsu practitioner, I've had my share of 250-pound guys kneel on my stomach while strangling me. But this smell debilitated me more, because I couldn't tap out. I tried to fan the air, but my eyes started watering.

I barfed a little through my nose. It stung, but the bile stopped my sense of smell momentarily, which was okay. I looked in all the pots. Nothing. I grabbed my roommate's stupid fucking pancake flipper, which he never took out of the box but still insisted on keeping it in the instance the fat aunt who gave it to him might make the trip from Sacramento to our apartment and want a plate of hotcakes.

I grabbed my Foreman grill by the cord and snatched it out of the cabinet. I didn't bother checking it because I hadn't used it in about a week. In fact, I cleaned this handy tool last time. The Brita Filter sat as empty as the day I decided filtered water was for pussies. My guts swapped spots with my testicles. By now I drooled uncontrollably and wept.

The pot and pan cabinet stood empty. Still, nothing. Even though you grow used to a smell, this one didn't lighten up. I pulled matches out of the junk drawer and lit the whole book, throwing them into a pan. I didn't care if the fire alarm exploded into sirens. I didn't care if the whole place burned to the ground. I needed to find that smell.

I couldn't walk, so I crawled searching. I open a pot, forced myself to smell and then tossed it across the hall into the office when I didn't find the culprit. Nothing. I really hoped it was the pancake flipper so I could throw it away. I mean, how hard is it to flip some stupid fucking pancakes?

I finally grabbed my good pal the Foreman grill. I tried to open it just to be fair, but the grill wouldn't budge. I pried at it in my frenzy, then emptied my stomach onto my hands. A few seconds later, I wiped my face with the hanky that covered my mouth. I opened my eyes, now sobbing, but covered the grill in more sickness.

The grease trap was fine, but the grill itself…

Continue to Part 3 (The Finale) »

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