I spent a good part of my weekend wading through raw sleaze. In other words, I went looking for a replacement for the shitmobile.
I didn’t really mind the 50-sievert dose artificial smiles, the frightening rustbuckets on offer, or the lies that would make even Silvio Berlusconi blush. Those things go with the territory. The thing that got up my nose the most (both literally and figuratively), was the Geneva Convention-violating cologne.
Is there some kind of law that dictates that all used-car salespeople have to wear the most offensive aftershave on the market? Then again, I suppose it’s fitting that they exude the cloying, sweet stench of corruption.
I had to take a shower and wash my clothes when I returned home, but I can still smell them.