The Wad’s opinion on nutjobs is that it always takes one to know one. The Wad’s been on both sides of that judgment, and as of late, discretion has proved the better part of valor.

That said, the Wad has been semi-forced into a vague acquaintance with a complete whacko-nutjob lately, and in the cause of science, the Wad hasn’t run screaming in the other direction.

Seriously, when it comes to sanity, this bitch don’t know bullshit from Bisquik.

Though oddly, or perhaps, not oddly enough, the first thing the Wad thought when speaking to this walking train wreck was: “This bitch ain’t taking her meds.” So much more smug was the Wad when this turned out to be the case.

“I don’t need no fuckin’ meds! You sound like my fuckin’ husband!”

Oh Honey, sadly, you do.

As for the deodorant thing, middle school boys are tricked by so many embarrassing painful, awkward, re-pubescent, boner inducing commercials to believe that women are interested, nay aroused by the scent of a Brut male.

Or Axe.

Or Tag.

Or any number of Guido colognes.

The Wad blames the father’s of the generation. The WadFather used to wear Brut and it still makes the Wad think of his Dad whenever he walks into a certain barbershop.

The WadSpawn will undoubtedly be influenced by his father’s choice of Tommy Bahama and Mitchum unscented antiperspirant.

Personally though, The Wad has not often been told that he stinks. Perhaps he has, because, after all a little jungle crotch is normal in the summers around here, but still. Few have told the Wad that he stinks. Ferchristssake, if you wash yourself once or twice daily, will you need a strongly scented deodorant?

Why the hell is it getting so hard to find unscented antiperspirant anyway? Old Spice ultra unscented was the bomb.

Hmmm. There are two nutjobs I know in your sphere of influence that could fit that bill. Do I know which one it is? Or is this a completely new one?

And you and I could DEFINITELY have a rip-roaring convo on this subject. And I think we should.

Nope, this is an ALL new nutbag.

See that’s one angle the South Shore initiative didn’t exploit; the readily accessible pool of genetically challenged retards that a body can mingle with on the train.

As for the long convo, sure. But save your nickels, you’re buying.

Ah. Cheap beer night, or are you going to make me spring for the good stuff?

hm

know someplace that has pabst on tap?

Oh God, Pabst? Really?

Good enough to fuck up The Wad’s granddad, good enough for The Wad.