The Random Dialogs: Part Three

Guy 1: Dude, you don’t look so good.
Guy 2: I know. I just got my hair cut.
Guy 1: No, not your hair. I mean you look physically ill.
Guy 2: Yeah, well, the broad that cut my hair had the worst breath on the planet—worse than anyone currently alive or dead.
Guy 1: You mean her breath was worse than a corpse’s breath.
Guy 2: Presumably, yes.
Guy 1: But we’re scumbags, bro. The smell of that black sludge I puked up that one time I drank a bunch of the blue-label Smirnoff vodka didn’t bother you at all. How could some lady’s breath have been terrible enough to make you sick? I mean, you look as if you just ate a bag of abortions from a leper colony dumpster.
Guy 2: Urgh … my lungs feel like the walls of an outhouse resting atop a tallow vat.
Guy 1: Don’t tell me you’re turning into a big girl, and foul odors are suddenly too much for your dainty lady nose.
Guy 2: I can’t even begin to describe the horror, dude. This stench transcends foul odor. Those Lovecraftian tentacle whisps of mephitic breath assaulted more than my nose. Those noxious, invisible stink tendrils hurt my soul … my soul.
Guy 1: Holy shit. What did this breath smell like?
Guy 2: What did it smell like? You can’t compare this breath to anything currently extant in this realm, dude. Inhaling that filth was like gazing into the abyss. It was gazing back into me, man. The abyss was fucking gazing into me!
Guy 1: Calm down, dipshit.
Guy 2: You just can’t understand.
Guy 1: I’ll try, though, because I’m beyond intrigued. What did this lady look like?
Guy 2: Well, physically she was a petit Vietnamese lady. That, I’m convinced, was only a disguise—a three-dimensional skin tarp, duplicitously masking the unspeakable horrors undulating endlessly into the depths beyond the boundaries of human understanding.
Guy 1: Enough of that metaphysical shit, dude, seriously.
Guy 2: Sorry. But, like I said, my soul has been wounded.
Guy 1: By bad breath? Heh. Pansy.
Guy 2: Take it easy, dick. I’m coming out of shock.
Guy 1: She probably just had some fucked up shit for lunch. You know, like cists scraped from cod cloacae, boiled in garlic broth or something.
Guy 2: I’m telling you, man: smells like that can’t be created. They have to be conjured … summoned or something.
Guy 1: Try to give me some kind of smell to compare it to.
Guy 2: I can’t. I mean, it didn’t smell like anything else. The best I can do is formulate some kind of comparison based on the severity of the odor as opposed to its similarities to common scents with which you’d be familiar.
Guy 1: Wait … what?
Guy 2: Okay, here’s an example: Although it didn’t smell anything like a syphilitic skunk ejaculating liquid Limburger cheese onto a pubic hair fire, I can safely—with a significant amount of presumption, of course—say that it was a far worse smell than that. Again, I must stress that it stank like nothing else I have ever smelled before.
Guy 1: Dude, truffle oil!
Guy 2: What?
Guy 1: My truffle oil precedent. Someone might ask, “What does truffle oil taste and smell like?” And my answer would be, as always, “It tastes and smells like truffle oil.” Truffle oil is a unique experience and can’t be compared to anything else.
Guy 2: Truffle oil sucks and is terrible.
Guy 1: Fuck you. You just have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 2: If by pedestrian you mean averse to the flavors one might find while probing the underside of a Parisian bus seat with his tongue, then, yes, I have a pedestrian palette.
Guy 1: Whatever.
Guy 2: Anyway, her breath was worse than if an aged Russian circus bear puked white pepper into her mouth, and that really obese cat that was on the news recently used her mouth as a litter box for, like, a month.
Guy 1: It was worse than that?
Guy 2: Based on my a posteriori understanding of the component odors present in that description, yeah, it was far gnarlier than that shit.
Guy 1: I’m noticing a recurring theme here. You seem to draw frequently from the animal kingdom when compiling gross smells.
Guy 2: Of course. This smell was entirely inhuman, so it makes perfect sense.
Guy 1: Did it burn your eyes?
Guy 2: It was suffocating my soul, dude. It went far beyond eye-burning. I don’t know if her hair dryer wasn’t working or something, but instead of using it to blow the loose hair from my shoulders, she blew on me with her heinous breath. It was like inhaling glass shards through the tubular offal from a mad cow while a proctologist ham-fistedly jammed a nine-volt battery into my sinuses.
Guy 1: A nine-volt battery?
Guy 2: You know how if you put a nine-volt battery to your tongue it sort of zaps you a little?
Guy 1: Oh yeah. I get it.
Guy 2: This sucks. My scent memory is like some kind of fucked up crime scene now.
Guy 1: Why the hell didn’t you just offer her a breath mint or something?
Guy 2: Yeah, because dropping a urinal mint into the Gangese River is going to make it smell like a Listerine spring on the shores of Lake Arrowhead.
Guy 1: Hey, at least it would have been something.
Guy 2: You’re familiar with the concept of the hopelessly futile, right? Because an Altoid wouldn’t make a shit volcano smell like toothpaste. That’s the definition of futility, homeslice.
Guy 1: And besides that, if you insulted the woman’s breath, she probably would have jammed scissors in your ear or forced you to play Russian Roulette with her refugee uncles in the alley behind the store. I saw The Deer Hunter. I know what’s up.
Guy 2: I’d be more concerned she’d fuck up my haircut.
Guy 1: Where’d you get your hair cut again?
Guy 2: Supercuts.
Guy1: And you wonder why you had a shitty experience? Way to go, tightwad. Why don’t you drop an extra five bucks and get a proper haircut instead of going to So-So Cuts all the goddamned time.
Guy 2: I seriously doubt that five dollars is all that separates a face full of freshly milked elephant seal flatus from a quality haircut.
Guy 1: Whatever, dude. Why don’t you go take a shower or something—wash some of the shame off of yourself. You’ve got the facial expression of a rape victim.