I-4. Wekiva Springs. 70 miles an hour. Rain storm.
We looked at each other, eyes bugging out and watering, in four-alarm panic as the stink permeated the confines of my small rice-burner car. This was an aroma like no other we had ever encountered.
It beat the smashed skunk we rolled over and pasted to the undercarriage a few years back. Had to sacrifice a spatula from the kitchen and slide in under the car nauseatingly close to the splattered remains to scrape bits of that critter off the axle.
It far outpaced the stench we created by storing used cat litter in a sealed can until it was “full enough” to dispose of on the curb. My idea, I admit it. Not a good one, but impressive to all who encountered it.
This noisome odor shattered the puke-inducing record of my parent’s refrigerator when it ceased to be cool and croaked in a spectacular way with a few bags of my brother’s fish bait inside during the heat wave a few summers back. Cleaning that up, I looked like a deranged Bedouin with kitchen towels wrapped around my head and swim goggles on my eyes to ward off the visible fumes created by maggot-infested bait fish and Eggo waffles.
It actually beat the famous acidic cloud of funk my son can create after incubating Hormel Chili with Beans somewhere in his lower intestines overnight. Pulling the lid off a can of that is like pulling the pin on a stink grenade! We hear the "click! shuraack!" of the can opening in the kitchen and make plans to evacuate! T-minus a few scant hours until emission. Best to be out of the house or suffer the indignities of the hi-larious "chase mom until cornered, lift a leg and attempt to alter her olfactory reality" game.
But, as usual, the origin of the fetid miasma gassing us to unconsciousness in my car was a mystery. No one in their right mind would cop to this!
"Mom! What IS that?” she said.