Funky

As The Wet gets underway I am noticing some new things, particularly the way things smell. There is a peculiar scent I now associate with The Wet: Body Funk, a condition that borrows its appellation from an ineptly named piercing and tattoo shop down in trendy Port.

I noticed it immediately when we moved into the first house. A subtle whiff of putrefaction, nothing as obvious as a dead animal though nearly as gagging; one not easily identified or located, but one which punches you in the face when you finally discover its font of nastiness. An appalling, wandering, ghastly smell; heavier, cheesier than any standard mold or mildew stank you’ll ever come across. It turned out to be the fabric shower curtain the owners had left behind, the source pinpointed after I had the misfortune of taking too close a sniff. The second instance of the creeping crud was detected while viewing a property for sale up near Cooktown. This time it was our tour guide. The realization that this stench could manifest itself in human form was truly frightening. Good God, could I ever possibly smell like that? But granted, this guy was a hermit who lived in an open shed, a roof and no walls, out in the bush, whose hygiene appeared to be slightly lacking to begin with. Recently we looked at another property for sale, a charmingly ramshackle Queenslander on five acres, a bargain, that we might have snapped up were it not for the odiferous emanations wafting out of the bath house. The termite damage, the bedroom that was nothing more than an open porch, none of that that fazed us, but, put it this way, our own family’s body funk we might be able to tolerate, but we are not going to spend money for someone else’s. A few days ago I again crossed paths with the noxious scent. My friend, who is generally clean and well kempt, opened her car door and it blasted me. Was it her or her vehicle? I’m not going to get close enough again to find out, but if she could stink like that…

I showered before bed last night and woke this morning smelling like someone’s grandfather. Maybe I should reconsider my mother’s Christmas offer of a new bottle of Chanel No. 5.

Like lice, apparently body funk is just another inconvenience of life in the tropics.


That smell…that smelly smell that smells smelly…

-- Mr. Krabs