Blinded by the Smell

The promo for Spicebomb, housed in a bottle resembling a hand grenade, which appears in the June Men’s Journal exploded before my eyes, leaving a stronger lingering aroma than the three scent strips for other men’s fragrances tucked into the magazine. The editors believe Spicebomb is a scent many men will appreciate: strong hints of pepper at first with a masculine note of tobacco to finish. Finish is right.

Not this man. When did acrid scents more likely to cause coughing fits than pleasing looks become marketable? What happened to oils like honeysuckle, vetiver, sandalwood, patchouli, orange blossoms, musk, rosemary, cedar, oakmoss, lime, amber, pine, and bergamot? Are they gone with the wind of common sense and good scents?

Any day now I expect to see these new additions on the fragrance counters of stores:

Heavy Metal: A four-pound bottle shaped like a boombox containing essence of aluminum paint blended with undertones of alum sure to cause women to either pucker up or pass out.

Finish Line: Men who splash on this perfect blend of horseradish and horse chestnut will end up in the winner’s circle or the doghouse.

Burning Desire: Women certainly will find their passions and tempers inflamed when approached by men who have doused themselves in the smoky aromas of smoldering maple leaves with undertones of roasted asphalt.

Sea Worthy: The amber greasy derived from whale blubber which is rubbed over the chin and neck instead of splashed on the cheeks will give any male who uses it the nautical pungency of a beached halibut.

High Octane: More than sparks will fly after dates are overcome by gasoline-derived fumes that have been mingled with the sulfurous odor of freshly-struck friction matches.

Ripe Harvest: It will not just be garden-variety females yielding to the urge to plant one on yokels who douse themselves in this mixture of cauliflower, rutabaga, and cabbage.

Fast Track: Anyone opening the bottle shaped like a locomotive will be saying “a choo” instead of “choo-choo” when they get a whiff of a medley of coal dust, rancid chaws, diesel exhaust, and engineer overall perspiration.

Amid all the unpleasing sneezing and wheezing that could bring more than calliopes crashing to the ground, I don’t expect the breaking point to occur until some free-thinker comes up with a real stinker capturing the aroma of a day at a rural ballpark in a bottle resembling a bleacher pole painted in black-and-white stripes. Perhaps only when that cat crosses the line with Out of Here will consumers cry “Fair is foul.”





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