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That’s Mister Stinkypants to You

Sometimes, my douchebaggery knows no bounds. Often, like today, little morsels of witlessness layer over each other, like a big fat dogpile of douchebagginess. To wit:

On Monday afternoon, I started a load of laundry, mostly colored rugbies and tees and such. I was very proud of myself, for helping out around the house like a big boy. I even treated myself to a cookie. And there was much rejoicing.

On Wednesday evening, I realized that I hadn’t actually transferred said laundry to the dryer. Upon further investigation, I found the clothes to be sitting — nay, soaking in eight inches or so of two-day-old water in the bottom of the washer. Douchebag move number one. Oops.

I then proceeded — as any clueless, brutish, non-metrosexual man might — to cover my mistake by (finally) loading the laundry into the dryer. I’ve had the standing water problem with the washer before, and found that slopping the mess into the dryer is always the easiest thing to do.

(No, I didn’t say the ‘best’, nor the ‘brightest’, nor even the most ‘energy-efficient’. I said easiest. See section on ‘clueless’, ‘brutish’, and ‘non-metrosexual’ above. And maybe add ‘slack-jawed’, for good measure.)

So, two douchebag moves down, one to go. This morning, I scooped up the ‘clean’ laundry, looking for a rugby to wear to work.

(Again, see ‘non-metrosexual’, if you have any questions here. ‘Clothes horse’, Charlie ain’t.)

I slipped one of my favorites over my head… and nearly passed out from the smell. Apparently — surprise, surprise! — festering in dirty funk water for two days is bad for clothes. It turns out that laundry can ‘sour‘ — which my mother told me about, but I thought it was just an old wives’ tale to make me clean up around the house more often. You know, like ‘pet dander’, or ‘dust bunnies’, or ‘plague rats’.

Anyway, I managed to get the shirt off without actually losing consciousness… and tried another one. Yes, from the same clothes basket. Look, at nine o’clock in the morning, the old brain doesn’t work too well. I hadn’t quite pieced together the chain of douchetasticness yet; I thought maybe the dog had, I don’t know, died on the first shirt overnight. In the middle of some sort of ammonia-induced bowel movement, apparently. But when the second shirt offended as well, I amended my theory. After all, we’ve only got one dog.

So, I pitched all of the rugbies from that load into the dirty clothes pile, in an effort not to continue down the path of douchebagitude. I chose a shirt from the closet — yes, I do occasionally hang a shirt up, ladies — and I was in the clear.

Or so I thought.

Next — no, really, like right away — I slipped on a pair of jeans. From the basket. Same one I’d just purged the shirts from. And, since I didn’t actually pull the pants over my head, I didn’t notice that they were funk-afflicted, too.

(See, if I’d been up at eight, instead of nine, I might have accidentally pulled them over my face, trying to put them on. I’m telling you — the brain, she don’t wake up so early. In this particular case, a little less lucidity might have helped. Looks like a case of ‘dumbed if you do, dumbed if you don’t’. Bitches.)

It wasn’t until I got into the car — bringing my knees significantly closer to my schnozz — that I realized my pants smelled like ass all over. I suppose that there’s always a small portion of my pants that smells like ass — specifically, my ass. But since that part of the pants is actually next to my ass — and because I’m not a fricking contortionist carny freak — I don’t ever worry too much about that little bit, or even know about it. And, since I don’t often get — or give, for that matter — fully-comprehensive lap dances from ankle to waist, the rest of my pants are generally ass-smell-free.

(Of course, if my pants were to be ‘assed up’ by an all-over lap dance, they still wouldn’t smell like ass, right? Vanilla body spray, maybe. Glitter paint, perhaps. Stripper sweat… hopefully. But not ass. Those ladies keep a thick sheen of parfum and baby oil between themselves and their ‘rubbees’ at all times.

From, um, what I hear. Ahem. Moving on.)

So, long story ever-so-slightly-shorter, I’m now tooling around the office in a pair of jeans that smell like they’ve been bleached in buttermilk and passed through a moose. I’m not saying which direction they were passed through the moose — but I’m not sure either way is ‘good‘. Moose ass then moose breath, or moose breath then moose ass; which would you choose? These are questions that haunt us all.

And, of course, I’ve been in two meetings so far, with another two on tap. Of all the days I’d prefer to hide from the world and wallow in the stench of my pants, and it’s chock full of interacting with others. What’s next? Is it ‘Sniff Your Neighbor’s Knees Day‘ today? ‘Everybody Trade Pants Day‘ at the office? ‘Lick-A-Thigh Promotion Night‘ at the ball park? Meh. Me and my stinky pants are out of here.