Mr. BO

I’m slangin dranks, probably 30 people crammed at the bar, pretty busy, but I got it under control, and all of a sudden, a horrible smell hits me. Yep, the dreaded BO. And it’s not because of a packed show, somebody sweatin. It’s the beginning of the show, and AC’s crankin. It’s the kind of BO that clings to someone. Days of not showering, and eating Big Macs. And probably some Meth thrown in for good measure.

Ok, whatever, I keep calm. I can’t tell who it is. I assure myself, band will start playing, guy will go watch the band, and the BO will dissipate.  We’re good.

Sure enough, band starts playing, everybody clears out, goes to the front of the stage. I go sit in the corner of the bar, jot down some story ideas.

All of a sudden, a horrendous odor hits my nose. I look up, there’s ONE GUY AT THE BAR AND IT’S HIM. Mr. BO.  Can’t someone tell him, a loved one in his life, that cares about him, dude, you got some serious BO happenin. You need to take care of that.

I grab the OdoBan from the bar, an air-freshener, and just drench the shit out of the bar area in front of him.

That takes care of the smell. But he looks up at me weird. Sorry, dude. If you’d just wash up yo shit, none of this would have to happen.

He walks away, and I praise The Lord.

From my heart to yours,

Clint Curtis. Bartender.

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