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The Not-So Polite Brit, At Your Service

       This is an old morality tale.

        I used to work at a restaurant with a guy named Thomas, that’s what I think he called himself. As far as I remember everyone just referred to him as “Stinky” but not to his face mind you. Thomas had–insert echoey reverbed voice–B.O.
And it was bad, really bad. None of us could believe how this normal, academic looking white-bread character wasn’t aware of his complete and utter underarm funk. I’m not talking about the musky smell of a recently exercised male here. I’m talking about the smell from the depths of Satan’s ass that made you gag as he wafted away. He wore a white waiter’s shirt that must have been deathly allergic to cleaning chemicals and only held together by its own stubborn understains. Heaven forbid any of the poor wretches that he waited on.

       Who knows how many first dates he ruined by failing to acquaint himself with a bar of soap?

           I won’t go into it too much more, but when he had left the scene of a conversation I swear you could still smell him a minute later. His odor was probably temporarily lost without him, like a puppy off its leash for the first time. If he came back before the minute was up, it was like he lapped his smell on the track forging an uber-funk that was seal up your nostrils with window putty intolerable.

           So anyway, one morning after we all agreed that Thomas needed to know (he was having a particularly bad (underarm) hair day or something) I volunteered myself for the mission. Well, everyone knows I can be a dick, and I didn’t really care whether Stinky thought less of me for telling him.

         So I said, “Dude, did you take a shower this morning because you fucking stink?”

         Okay, so yeah, I could have handled it better (story of my life) but I said it. He was shocked, startled, embarrassed, and had not a clue that his underarm odor was being ridiculed by every single employee at the joint–including, might I add, all of the managers–none of whom wanted to say anything.

        So after the deed was done, I mentioned what I had said to Thomas to some of my co-workers and everyone was grateful and relieved. They said things to me like:
“I can’t believe you said something! I hope he gets a clue.”
“About time someone said something to that stinky muthafucka.”
“Thank God, Matty Stone, you are a true savior, let me worship your genius while I gently massage your genitals and feed you peeled grapes.”

        Okay, okay, that last one was obviously a lie. Just making sure you’re still paying attention.

       The next week Thomas comes up to me and says, “I need to talk to you.” And I assume he’s going to thank me for saying something to him about his hygiene issue, and that people have been a lot more willing to talk to him for more than a few seconds at a time.

       Instead he says: “You know, I asked everyone the next day if they thought I ever smell bad, and not one of them said I did; you’re a fucking dick.”

      While he was correct, I can be a fucking dick, I couldn’t believe that not one of my co-workers backed me up–not one.

     So the moral here, if there is one, is this:

      If I tell you you stink, and you ask other people if you stink and they say no. You still stink, and they’re just a bunch of cowards who would rather make fun of you behind your back rather than confront you about a problem that could easily be resolved with a bar of soap.

     All of which still makes me a fucking dick.

6 Responses

  1. OK. This one made me actually LOL.

    No… srsly.

    Good job!

    (I’m off to take a shower now.)

  2. Haha…I’m sure your cleanliness is beyond reproach. Thanks for the comment.

  3. Am I Thomas? hahahaha! Loved it.

    • Pretty sure you are the furthest thing from Thomas. And Thomas really was named Thomas. Here at The Bay Area Brit we strive for accuracy in our reporting, and we do nothing to protect the guilty from their shame.

  4. Matt, everybody @ work thinks you’re a dick and I volunteered to let you know.

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