Fred- He of the Stinky Ass

If I’m right, and this column has already generated the sort of cultural intrigue in my life usually reserved for coke-hoovering celebrities, I probably don’t need to tell you that Tom and I recently became the proud owners of a new car.  Relinquishing any tenuous grip on lefty-morality quicker than you can say ‘great deal on a shiny new 4WD!’, we picked up the keys a couple of weeks ago.  Since then, my travel schedule has been tweaked to include several utterly unnecessary trips a day, most of them spent grinning maniacally in sort of self-satisfied trance.  Safe to say, I like my new car. 

So it is with horror that I inform you that the worst of fates has befallen me.  I can only assume I’ve been smote by the Gods of nature.  My new baby stinks worse than the Flinders Street Station toilets. 

It all started when Tom accepted the dinner invite of a rather seedy fellow cricketer named Fred.  Fred is a nice enough fellow, but his lack of hygiene is the stuff of legends.  Impervious to my snobbery, Tom insisted we attend.  He won’t admit it, but I’m sure he regretted that decision the moment we entered the smoldering dung heap that was Fred’s house. 

‘Take a seat!’  Fred said warmly, gesturing toward a pile of rotting clothes presumably obscuring some sort of furniture.  I did as I was told.  As Fred chattered, pausing only briefly to rip down bongs with admirable speed, I could not for the life of me relax.  My nostrils were being inundated by a stench so powerful I would have gladly cuddled up to a ten day old dead rat to mask the offending odour.  I could derive comfort only in the thought that we would eventually be allowed to leave this place. 

‘So, I haven’t really had time to cook,’ Fred informed us between inhalations, ‘I thought we could take your new wheels to the local Macca’s drive thru.’ 

Nooooooooo!  I searched, frenzied, for an excuse, but my brain had been disabled by the fumes.  I was blank. 

As we walked out the door and toward the new car, I felt as if I was on some sort of death march, the theme to Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake playing menacingly in my head.  The moment Fred parked his behind in the back seat of my prized beauty, I knew she would never again fly with the same majesty. 

Five days have passed since that frightful night, five days of scrubbing, spraying, spritzing.  You name it, we’ve tried it.  But nothing will mask the distinct odour of Fred’s ass, ambushing our nostrils in a cruel reminder of our mistake every time we visit the shops. 

I know it’s self indulgent, but I just wanted to bask in that wonderful new car smell a few more weeks.  Instead, I’m forced to spend every trip shivering, all of the windows wound down, in an effort to breath something resembling fresh air.    

Next time a stinky somebody assumes the right to travel in my car, I’ll have a brilliant excuse at the ready.  ‘Oh, I’d take you, but I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to stand the smell!’ 

*Names have been changed to protect identities.