Despite your protestations to the contrary, I was, in fact, as gentle and diplomatic as possible last night when I explained to you that your personal odor was offensive to the other customers at the bar and that the situation needed to improve. Here's what I really wanted to say: You stank-ass, skank-ass, smelly fucking hippie. You make me want to puke when I walk by you. I can smell you from the bar when you're out on the dance floor. I didn't light that incense next to you to make the atmosphere kinder; I did it because people were leaving because of your rank fucking odor. Take a shower. Eat healthier. Buy some fucking deodorant. You smell like microwaved garbage—like a foot that's been marinated in a dead cow's ass and then boiled in swamp water with onions. No one wanted to offend your delicate sensibilities by telling you, but everyone, and I mean everyone, was talking about how bad you smelled. And leaving. And asking me wasn't there something I could do about it? And so I did. And I was as nice about it as I could be, 'cause that's the kind of guy I am. But if I never see your fat, smelly, ugly, one-dance-move-having carcass again, it'll be too soon. It makes my gorge rise just thinking about you. Ugh.