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Blunt in FashionStink, Stank, Stunk.
an emily blunt rant

 

 

 

 

Smell, is often a glorious sense, even dreamlike. For example, the smell of vanilla, hot apple cider, or a man's cologne lingering on a pillow. It can tickle your nostrils, conjuring up delightful memories…

But it can also be a horrific plateau of nausea from which there is no escape! No matter how many times you rinse or scour there's a sense of a scent askew. Like say after preparing Monk fish in a small apartment in winter…

After receiving a George Foreman cooker - and promptly becoming addicted to the stylings the contraption allows - I innocently brought home a slab of Monkfish to grill.

Monkfish is like a poor man's lobster and when full fat butter is drizzled atop it can be better than sex…. I know I am a sad, sad person. I originally discovered the discount delicacy due to its humorous name which brought to mind a fish that resembled Friar Tuck with Don Rickles' face…

So I plugged in the grill and prepared the feast for myself and my two canine sons, who were drooling in anticipation of this evening's grillfest-o-rama.

We fed till content as fatted ticks and all was right with the world. But after we returned from our evening walky-woo-woo the three of us were speed-slapped across the face as we entered my cubicle, err, apartment. The dogs actually stopped short of entering - what was this foul odor?

And I mean never has a fouler scent permeated the dwelling. It was a cross between say, old whore vagina and rotting corpses that had dined on stink bugs and pots of coffee pre-mortem; truly like nothing I ever smelt - smelled - have smelled.

Dear god open the windows…ignite the candles…get the fans a spinning! Nothing worked. The smell seemed to permeate the paintwork and settle into the DNA of the building. My bathroom towels even had an aura of green slime around them.

So the washing and scrubbing began. The boys were vacated and the bleach uncorked. Certainly I had nipped the odor at its effluvium source!

The next day I attended a press junket, slathered in a about a gallon of Banana Republic's finest petal perfume just in case…

As the big cheese celeb of le Jour spoke I noticed him kind of nervously squirming in his chair, an odd look upon his face. I quickly thought, " It's the old whore vagina/corpses scent! [gasp!] It must be in the jacket!" How do I work the Monkfish into conversation so I do not leave behind a stench of a reputation? I could hear him saying later, "She seemed nice enough…but for the love of Jason Robards Jr. what was that SMELL?" Argh.

Then I saw him dip his forefinger into his Latte and very casually slip it beneath his nose! Oh no! He was creating an aromatherapy relief digit, blocking his nostrils in lame defense. As polite as the gesture was, I had to do something.

In an Academy© winning performance I got up to get water and took off my jacket. Without skipping a beat I sniffed and "Grinched" my face saying, " Man my jacket stinks like rotten Monkfish. [Laughter]" I explained, "I made the mistake of grilling in my apartment last night and the whole place was infested with smell. Let me put this retched cloth outside…" He smiled in relief and the awkward incident was over.

Later when I got home I still - believe it or not - had an urge to finish the other half of the fish; waste not want not is a family illness. I grabbed an extension cord, the grill and headed for the fire escape.

As the sun disappeared, I set up the make shift grill and sat with my flashlight. As a lovely nightfall breeze whipped about me, mixing the foul fish with the succulent night Jasmine that bloomed below, I was quite proud of my American ingenuity. Of course I was also quietly stenching up the courtyard. Neighbors were heard softly complaining that a skunk was afoot, or a sewer had backed up…I slunk into the shadows avoiding notice swearing this was last time Monkfish would be prepared by me - anywhere!

 

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