My Armpits
“So like what the fuck is going on with my armpits?” I thought to myself in the shower this morning. My deodorant must be fucking me up or something. It’s that antiperspirant kind, you know, so you don’t look like a 70’s tennis player in the middle of your board meeting. I don’t know why I even have that kind – I usually go for the mark-1 mod-0 deodorant but I must have had a big interview or was traveling and forgot to pack some and this shit was the only thing I could get on short notice. It says “extreme sport” real big on it so I can see why I probably got hypnotized by their marketing gimmick. I’m not a huge deodorant connoisseur or anything, I mean, if the supermarket has a sale on the kind that makes your armpit reek like rosebuds and sprays pheromones all over women to make them fall in love with you then I’ll jump all over it, but this shit is really bad. So like, yeah, I don’t smell like a fat Turkish taxi-cab driver, but when I’m washing my crap the next morning my armpits are all dry and hurty and weird.
...? Really!?
I multitask in the bathroom. Ask any of my ex-girlfriends and they’ll tell you about the hundred times they walked in on me brushing my teeth and taking a piss, or trimming my toenails while I’m crapping, or cleaning my ears while I squirt Rogaine into my hair. I’m a soldier goddamn it. I maximize efficiency when it comes to routine tasks. I mean would you rather date some dude with nasty yellow toenails and nose-hair dreadlocks!? I didn’t think so, and shut the fuck up hippies. If you had your way we’d all be punching our pits with fistfulls of geraniums. Anyway, I digress.
Where was I? Oh yeah, “so like what the fuck is going on with my armpits?” I thought to myself in the shower this morning. I was dry heaving at the time. I was brushing my tongue off so I don’t have donkey breath all day. I had a few drinks last night and a cup of coffee on an empty stomach first thing this morning. Plus my stomach is pretty much fucked after that summer when Thompson and I tried to drink ourselves to death ‘Leaving Las Vegas style’. Quick side note, you can’t actually drink yourself to death – you just really fuck yourself up permanently and then have to deal with that from then on. Like dry heaves every morning. So that’s what I was doing when I noticed that I needed a mega-handful of liquid soap to get the funky weirdness out of my pits. Maybe its the aluminum or maybe my primitive armpits are just not evolved enough for the latest discoveries in deodorant technology. Why the hell would they even make this crap, I mean, I don’t really want to smell like baby powder and lilacs. Maybe if they had some more badass scents like diesel fuel or hickory bar-b-cue I could get behind it a little more. It’s not like ancient times when people were afraid to take baths for fear that water spirits would give them the black plague, but at the same time I don’t want to rock out with Old Spice and have every girl with daddy issues tackling me at the mall. There’s a place for tearful lap dances, it’s called a confessional. What the fuck!?
Nice polka dot shirt you unibrowed douchebag!
Fucking deodorant… Really!? You know, I was just at Costco the other day but the fucking place is like a Greek labyrinth and I can never find what I’m looking for in the right section. Like I’m looking for unsalted almonds and the aisle goes salted peanuts, unsalted peanuts, salted mixed nuts, unsalted mixed nuts, salted almonds, honey roasted almonds… gym socks. Gym socks!? Fuck me! I had to go all the way across the whole fucking store just to find the unsalted almonds next to the goddamn cat food. What the fuck people!? I bought the gym socks, incidentally, which makes me suspicious that there is something more sinister at play here.
Anyway, I didn’t get the deodorant and now my fucking pits are going to continue to be fucked up. Am I going crazy or is this the same shit that every age of humanity has had to deal with in one form or another. I mean, yeah, you stare into the window of a washing machine at the soapy maelstrom long enough and you’ll see Jean Paul Sartre, but I can’t be the only person wrought with the daily strife of this modern life. Jesus shit! Anyway, I’m off to the store – had to cut time out of my busy day to get my goddamn armpits squared away. Fuck my life.
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