Friday, January 24, 2014

Mavenism of the Moment: Post Traumatic Haiku Disorder

What the fuck IS Post Traumatic Haiku Disorder? Well, it's this weird-assed response I have when I'm repulsed or traumatized by something. And today that "something" is the fetid pit stank of a co-irker.

Super nice guy. And no, he doesn't have a disorder. He doesn't stink like this every day. At least if he did stink like this everyday, I'd prepare myself ahead of time with a swipe of Vics vap-o-rub under each nostril, like morgue workers do when dealing with ripe cadavers.

My point is, he IS capable of goodish hygiene. 
My problem is the CONSISTENCY of said hygiene.

So, this string of haiku is borne out of my olfactory bulb being used as a punching bag by this co-irker's stank glands.

Enjoy! (And by "enjoy" I really mean, "bask in the schadenfreude, bitches.")

How can you not smell
Your stink sticks to everything
Resinous armpit.

At first glance, normal
Otherwise fastidious
Oh! The pungency!

Singeing my nose hair
Nice guy with not-so-nice pits
Set my ire ablaze.

Why are you single?
 No one need ever to ask that.
 Regrettable whiff.

Indoor plumbing, soap
Detergent, deodorant
No excuse for stink.

I've met homeless men
Who did not stink like you do
Do you NOT smell it?

I feel bad. (I do!)
Bu-di-ssy meets All-be-damned! 
Please! Don't wave hello! 

END NOTE: This is all some weird assed, trippy, karmic riddle or joke, along the lines of "What is the sound of one hand clapping?" Corollary: One of life's lessons I was taught at a very young age was, "If you can smell yourself/your stink, OTHERS can, too." Well, here it is OTHERS can smell it, and yet, from the looks of it, he cannot smell his own stink or is otherwise immune to it, or the possibility is he thinks it's normal or he just accepts it.  And sadly, there is NO polite or kind way to bring this to his attention. The object ISN'T to cause him more suffering; however, I *would* like to diminish my own suffering. And since I cannot make him stink less, my post traumatic haiku disorder kicks into high gear.


  1. Positively Dantean. You work with this guy often? Can you print your haiku up in card form and drop it on his desk? Or given him a Mennen Speed Stick as a present?

  2. In fact, I go out to lunch with him, say 1-2x a month with another co-worker. And mercifully that happens to be on his non-pungent days. He works on a different floor, his office is adjacent to our mail room, and well, I'm the mail room lackey (in addition to the many other hats I wear at the office) and oftentimes I know he's in the office long before my body is actually in the mail room. To print up the haiku or leave a speed stick would be nothing short of cruel. I don't want to make him self conscious. And sadly telling him so would in turn, make him self conscious. It's a shame that lovely site "Just a Hint" went belly up a few years back. It was great for this kind of informing.


What sayeth thou? (Mean people suck, don't fuck it up.)

"I hate people."
"People" stop being "people" when they become friends.
Friends stop being friends when they become assholes.
So to refine my hatred, I hate people and I hate assholes.