The New Age for Beginners

I wasted most of my time in college but every once in a while I would sit down and write something I thought was funny.  The following tutorial for the New Age wannabe was written after getting a little high on high fructose corn syrup.  (dangerous stuff)  It is printed the same way I wrote it almost fifteen years ago.  It’s a bit clumsy but worth a read.

Hello fellow wanderer of the stars!  You are about to learn about the great, swell, cool, groovy, or whatever ( it is all relative, right?) world of the New Age follower, disciple, student…

The first thing you have to learn is how to sit like a New Ager.  We believe that the entire world is in pain, thus we sit as if in pain, agony, torture… find a really HARD place to sit  (when you get good enough a real treat awaits you.  Spikes and Hot coals!)  Drag the top of your right foot on your thigh.  When you hear something snap, you’re there. Put you other foot on your thigh as well.  You should now be in searing pain.  Keep up the good work , toil, labor…

Now you must clear your mind so it can be filled with our New and Improved, All-Purpose, Twenty-hour Hour formula!  (Never mind the being that brings you this.  He is just the delivery guy, spirit, daemon…) To help you clear your brain we suggest our book titled, Nothing much really and Not a Whole Lot.  This book, which has won our highest award, is PACKED FULL with blank pages.  Comes in twelve languages.

After achieving this state you need to let all those around you know that you have arrived at total brain death.  Start humming; something by Bach will do.  Try it, HMMMMMMM.  Wow isn’t’ New Age fun?

To keep New Age fun we also enjoy the company of large, innate objects.  Go outside, find a tree, and begin a conversation.  Here is a typical first conversation…

Young New Ager:  Hello Mr. Tree. I am a New Ager.  How is it going?
The Tree should respond:
Young New Ager:  I love all things, except athlete’s foot.  I even love you Mr. Tree
The tress should respond:
Young New Ager
: Can I hug you?
The tree should die

Very Good!  God is everything!  Next try a large rock.

Young New Ager: Hello Mr. Rock
The rock should reply
Young New Ager: Can I interest you in AAARRRGGG
The rock should roll over on New Ager

Another fun aspect of the New Age is getting energy from touching crystals.  (Why did we pick crystals?  Good Question.  I would guess it is because they look swell, thus mentally challenged people will actually believe that the crystal holds some special power.  It really doesn’t matter where you get your vibrations.  I personally use pork sausage.  Your first session may go something like this…

Young New Ager:  Here we go again.  (sigh) Hello Mr. Crystal.
Young New Ager:
That is funny you did not say anything.  (Look of disbelief)
Young New Ager:Ok, go ahead send vibes.

Next we need to get in touch with our TRUE selves.  This is the easy part.  Stand in front of a mirror. (Nude if you want to REALLY face the facts).  What you are looking at is your fake self.  Stretch you hand out, bend the your elbow, and scratch the nearest ear to your hand.  That is your true ear.  Tour true ear is usually connected to your true body.

I hop this helps the young New Ager.  Doing this tutorial has helped solidify my realization that our beliefs are simply common scene.

Dustin – Safe Only At A Distance

A few years after Mom and Dad Teply split, my Mom was living in an apartment situated on North Dakota’s backside.  Brothers and sister Teply lived with her and during the summer months we would be accompanied by our favorite cousin, a rapscallion named Dustin.  It was cramped, a little too cozy, and whole lot of fun.

Dustin had a quick wit and the good-natured feel for people.  That he ignored the consequences of his actions made him good company.   Unless of course, you were responsible for his well being.  It was always my secret opinion that Aunt Kohnen would snicker a bit as she slid Dustin’s rear into the backseat with Mom’s children then whistled a cheery tune as Mom drove away.

The phrase, “Selling sand to a sheik”doesn’t begin to describe the way Dustin would sell the brothers Teply on dumb ideas.  Here’s a sample off the top of my head and please keep in mind, Dustin invested most of his grand schemes on my younger brothers.

I remember…“Hey, you’ve got a girl hamster in this cage and a boy over here.  What do you suppose would happen if we let them meet?”

Then there was…“Yea, I’m doing tattoos now.  How about I practice on your arm?  It’ll look really cool.  No, I swear it will.”

And how could I forget…“The only useful thing about areosol cans is how they throw flames when you light a match then spray.  It fries the wings off hornets.  Hey, isn’t there a wasp nest in behind your house?”  

And believe me, I don’t know the half of it.

One of the funniest memories I have (and it’s hard to explain why) is the night Dustin, his brother Mark, and the brothers Teply were sleeping over at (I think it was) a hotel.  The adults had foolishly left these near adolescents alone. 

Dustin quickly produced a set of electric hair sheers. 

“Hey Mark,” Dustin already had it plugged in.  “Mark, how about I give you a hair cut.  You know it can’t be that hard with this guard.  And I can switch guards to give you different lengths.”

Strangely, I don’t remember the details of what happened next but I do remember Mark being presented to the adults with an inch and a half swath of scalp above Mark’s left eye to his right ear was reduced to peach fuzz.  Mark’s new, perfectly geometric bald spot and the screwed up scowl on his face is an image I’ll never forget.

“Now I can drive my Matchbox cars over your head without the wheels getting caught in all your hair.”

Dustin’s career in hair styling eventually came to an end but not on that evening.  Before he was done, several of his unfortunate guinea pigs experienced sudden hair loss as well.  No one was surprised. 

All this makes one wonder if everyone’s favorite cousin ever had an impulse he didn’t like.

Note:  Teply family… is being worked on today and tomorrow.  There isn’t much on there at the moment but come back during the next couple of days to check up on the “Wonder Child.”

The Drunken Scribe 2000

The Corporate Offices of Chronic Copier Inc.
54321 KaBoom Street
Esss OL, $%!&*

Chief Dodo

Tight Wad Office Manager Industries
Manhattan NY, 10004

We at Chronic Copier would like to thank you for recent purchase of our latest, convenience-riddled copier, the Drunken Scribe 2000.  At Chronic Copier, we always provide our customers with our No-Fault guarantee!  If the copier breaks, it’s not our fault and that’s twenty-four hours a day seven days a week! 

In addition to that generous policy, we also offer a free, introductory enrollment into Project DoOver.  When you enroll, we promise to use a small portion of your purchasing dollars to fixing the DS 2000’s inherent design flaws.  These are built RIGHT IN to all our products so that the frequency of service calls with allow your secretary and our service provides to develop a stronger professional relationship!  This is a good thing and can be listed in italics on any year-end report.  (Sorry, at this time we are experiencing abnormally high professional dialogue.)

Also remember if you choose to participate in Project DoOver the DS 2000’s promised savings in paper and ink may not be met, as your employees will be able to make their copies with a reckless amount of ease.  Business studies have shown that the DS 2000’s specific design flaws MAXIMISE the savings from endless, useless copies.  If you allow the DS 2000 to function on its own, it will keep your bottom line from bending under the weight of excess paper and ink!

We offer other features completely unique to the Drunken Scribe 2000!  Instead of a paper tray for bothersome legal sized paper, the DS2000 offers a three speaker sound system programmed to play soothing melodies to calm your employees.  This is especially helpful whenever the dreaded error code B129 flashes on the display panel.  (See your three-inch thick owners manual for more information.  We now offer all owners’ manuals in Swahili!)

At Chronic Copier, we didn’t stop there.  The cumbersome paper trays have been removed to allow space for our latest convenience…the change maker.  Now your employees can easily find change for the nearby vending machine while contemplating the wonders of error code G 732! 

We at Chronic Copier would again like to thank your cooperation for purchasing the Drunken Scribe 2000.  We hope you are as happy with it as we were to get rid of that piece of &@#.

Over Apraised

Mrs. Teply slaps her forehead after making one of her rare, boneheaded mistakes.  She looks up from her work and asks the wall in front of her.  “Am I crazy or is it just me?”

I was sitting on the couch near her working on my latest DodoEgg.  Her question didn’t make any sense.  “After a question like that I’d have to say yes.”  
“Well, if I’m crazy then you’re certifiably insane.” 

“What’s the difference?” I replied.  “Are you saying there are different levels of madness?  Can I be twelve percent crazy or thirty percent crazy?”

Absolutely,” she pronounced.  “I can just look at you an estimate your craziness factor at about sixty-two percent.”

“And where did you get that number?” 

“I’d tell you but you’re too crazy to understand.  Go back to your imaginary website before I decide to double the medication I’ve been slipping into your meals.”

She went back to her work but I didn’t leave the idea alone. 

If one defines madness as anything we perceive that isn’t reality then everyone is crazy to a certain extent.  We may never be able to tag a numerical value to it but make no mistake you’re crazy too.

If I had to peg the number one cause of a warped perception, my culprit would be ego.  Take a quick look at some of the crazy things people do because pride clouds their view of reality.

*Looking down on others because you’re strong, good looking, or tall.  Wait, is it your fault you were given that body or did you just win a part of the genetic lottery?  Would you still credit yourself or your parents if you were born short?

*Feeling superior because of great athletic play causes fantastic delusions of grandeur!  Even if you are wildly applauded, it’s still a game.  Try removing a life threatening tumor or teaching a kid to read.

*Giving yourself a big thumbs up because of a beautiful home, cars and clothes.  These are nice but not if they are difficult for you to afford.  Even if you can afford them, I want to be the first to congratulate you on having the ability to spend money.

*The Bible says, “Knowledge puffs up.” and man do I believe it.  Intelligence is as much of a gift as good health and before looking down on the Neanderthals remember the contribution teachers and parents had in your present state of enlightenment. 

Oh yea, smart people understand the value of good manners and how easy it is for others to despise arrogance.

*Other men’s praise shouldn’t stick to your ego.  It lasts for as long as the words can hang in the air and turns to scorn the second you screw up.  (Which is going to happen.)  People are fickle.

Regardless of what a person’s circumstances are, two harsh realities remain and remove any real reason for the slight insanity that ego creates.  Whether you are rich, good-looking, poor, or butt-ugly, death is coming for you and it can arrive at any time.  Secondly, four hundred years from now not a single person will even know you existed.

I wonder if depression is the next leading cause of insanity?

A New Apple

 Guess which apple was grown in Hollywood.
Guess which apple was grown in Hollywood.

Once upon a time, there was a small apple orchard tucked into one of the Cascades many valleys.  Like a blue silk ribbon this mountain stream meandered through the valley and orchard before finding its way to the Pacific.  It gave fresh, pure water to the trees allowing them to produce the best apples in the world.

An old wooden home sits on a grassy rise and overlooks the rest of the orchard.  An old farmer and his sons live there just as previous generations of their family have done.  They tend to the trees as if each was a spoiled child. 

But no tree received the attention that was shown to a tree the farmers called Grande.  Grande was the largest and greatest tree in the entire orchard.  It grew the juiciest and crunchiest apples that could be found in all of Washington State. The farmer and his boys love this particular tree, and give it the best care they possibly can. 

At the top of Grande was an apple that was grand in size and shape.  It was a prize even among Grande’s other apples.  It grew near the very top branch with a perfect view of the entire valley.  Every other apple knew that the farmer would save this special apple for himself.  Most apples would be more than content to be the greatest apple on the best tree in the entire state but not this one.   Every day near sunset this apple would look out upon the rest of the trees and see nothing but other apples. 

Despite being so well grown and so highly admired, it was unhappy being one of so many.  It would ask, “What makes me different from the other apples out there?  How can I make myself truly stand out?”

One day troubling news was received from the other orchards.  An outbreak of worms was slowly making it way across Washington ruining apple crops along the way.  All treatments had been used but nothing seemed to halt the march of these pests.

When the worms finally reached the edge of the farmer’s orchard, they caught sight of the huge apple perched on the top of Grande, and they decided to make their way straight for that wonderful apple.  The farmer and his sons worked tirelessly to stop them, but to little gain.  Until a robin that had yet to travel south visited the orchard looking for work.

As the evil worms reached the edge of Grande the hungry robin quickly devoured them.  The robin was able to protect Grande for only a short while before the number of worms became too many for the now fat robin to handle.

The worms knew that the robin would be unable to stop them for long.  In droves, they began inching their way up Grande’s trunk in an effort to reach the finest apples in the world.  They especially wanted the discontent apple at the top.

Finally, the grand apple looked down and saw the horde coming for him but it didn’t despair.  Instead it saw this as an opportunity to make a change.  The apple decided that the pesky worms would not eat something that was different from the other apples.  So after a great deal of effort, it shifted its bulk from the upper to its lower half, changed its shiny red skin to a dingy yellow, and turned from being hard and crunchy to soft and mushy. 

When the apple looked upon its new body, it became overjoyed at finally being unique.  The other apples, however, looked at him with horror and disgust until the worms making their way up retook their attention.

By the time the hungry worms reached their goal, the apple was not an apple anymore.  The worms stared in disbelief for quite some time, and finally decided to go after better pickings.

But the worms had dallied too long.  The robin returned with all his hungry robin friends, and made short work of the nasty horde of worms.  From that day on, the robins stood guard over the farmer’s once again beautiful orchard and the farmer built special birdhouses to allow the robins to stay all year.

While the farmer and the robins were content, the story for our clever apple had just begun.  When harvest time came along, the farmer’s boys found him nestled among a few leaves at the tip of Grande’s highest branch.  They stared in wonder at the strange new fruit, and decided to take a small bite.  What they experienced tickled their tastes so much they rushed him to their father.  He agreed that the strange fruit was delicious.  The farmer then instructed his sons to plant him near Grande, and to take special care of their new discovery.

With the passage of time a large, strong tree grew up beside Grande.  This tree was different because of its unique yellow fruit, which the farmer called papple.  As this new treat grew more and more popular, it became known as the pear, even to this day.

Only A Matter of Time

It’s a humid autumn evening in Memphis, Tennessee.  The raw feel of live music escorted the cigarette smoke and conversations onto Beale Street.  It was a Saturday night not unlike countless others with pleasure seekers and partiers ambling from one bar to the next.  Inside a half filled bar, a cell phone, wallet, and watch recline on a shelf underneath the cash register.  All three belong to one of the bartenders on duty. 

They sat and watched tiny bits of ice scatter as their owner quickly pulled another bottle of beer from the cooler built into the bar.  The lid to the cooler falls shut with a deep thud as bits of ice fall away from the bottle. 

The wallet perks up a bit.  “Ooo, nice one!  I counted seven bits of ice that time how about you?”

Shut up Joe.”  The analogue watch rudely responded.  “Nobody wants to play your stupid game.”

The wallet slumped and didn’t say another word. 

Hey dude, don’t be so harsh!”  The cell phone, a cutting edge personality named Kyle, was never shy about speaking.  “Joe has nothing better to do.  Why don’t you just go get wound?”

For the last time Kyle, I am not a wind up!  If I were, that would make me an heirloom!  As it is, I’m already on my fourth battery and man, do I feel it.”

Kyle edged toward the watch.  “Hey Francis you know what?  I can tell time too.  Maybe you haven’t noticed but how often does Master even look at you anymore?  He usually just flips my sleek silver exterior open and looks.”

“Don’t kid yourself.” Frances replied with a grunt.  “I remember when digital watches came along and after that the calculator watch.  Neither could replace me and neither will you.”

“Yea, but those were still other watches.  I’m something totally different.  I’ve got a camera, memory for music and photos, day planner, and calling ability.  Oh yea, I can be a digital or analogue clock depending on my setting.  All I need is a jackknife coming out of my side and a credit card coming from the other and there isn’t anything I cannot do.” 

Joe looked worried.

“Look dag-nabit!  I’m on his left wrist anything he goes anywhere!”

“And when am I not in his right hand…and our owner’s right handed!”  Kyle beeped strongly.

But the watch wasn’t finished, “Let’s not forget, I’m also an accessory.  I’m an small expression of the owner’s personal style.”

“You’re kidding me right?”  Kyle sang the master’s favorite song before flipping open displaying a photo of the master’s family.  “Oh, and maybe you haven’t seen the miniature flame decals I’ve got on my sides.”

The bartender heard his phone go off.  He reached under the cash register and pulled it out.

Francis flexed his band and said, “Well, Joe that kid doesn’t know what he’s talking about!  I tell you, the next time I see my pals cassette tape, and Polaroid camera …”

“Shut up Francis.”

Setting Your Drama

Hello!  Welcome to the exciting and creative field of Program Television Executive!  Being a Television Executive is a fun and rewarding way to boost your ego as well as your earnings potential!  With this informative manual you will be equipped to produce and properly schedule network television at any of the six hundred and fifty-two stations currently looking to overpay for this type of expertise.

Chapter One – The Art of the Drama
Part One – Theme or Setting

We will begin with the proper setting for a drama.  Like a good pair of undergarments, intelligent executives always wash, press, and re-wear the same themes. 

1) Lawyer shows-
Pluses: Actors wear lots of suits and carry briefcases filled with Styrofoam peanuts or Mad magazines.  Episodes can cover the same thrilling themes that most lawyers deal with: divorce, bankruptcy, and billing by the minute.

Pitfalls:  Actors must often give long monologues that will require intensifying background music to keep the audience awake.  Everyone must keep a straight face when actor screams, “I object!” and frightens the drowsy cameraman.

2) Police shows-
 Pluses:  Actors (both male and female) can grow stubble ergo appearing macho and commanding.  Wonderful lines like, “I’m going to feed you your teeth.” and, “I don’t need a warrant!” give viewers the outlet for their own righteous furry.

 Pitfalls: Guns are not real. 

3) Doctor shows-
 Pluses:  Lines like, “Your husband needs this surgery but there is only a twenty percent chance it will save his life!  However, there is a one hundred percent chance you will be charged fifteen thousand dollars.” can be shortened to the more tension inducing, “Your husband has a twenty percent chance of living.”

 Pitfalls:  Monitors being used by actors to watch football.  Actor cuts his finger on a prop scalpel then faints.  Cost of fake blood expected to double with additional medical drama shows.

4) Teen shows-
 Pluses:  Younger viewers are naive enough to believe their show is doing something new and they can’t miss an episode.  Can create a school without ugly people crowding the hallways.  Can create malls without ugly people crowding the stores.  Can create a world with no pimples.   

 Pitfalls:  Key actors age and are suddenly less believing when confronted with tragic news Jenna needs her tonsils taken out the night before the prom.  Actor gets drunk at a Hollywood party and shows up for beach scene with a tattoo and a sex tape on the Internet.  

5) Wealthy Family (oil money or baby oil money) shows-
 Pluses:  Characters have lots of money that allows scriptwriters to ignore clumsy issues like going to work.  Allows for “bratty” characters that viewers love to hate.  Fictional wealth helps ease the blatant plastic surgery many of the actresses have had performed.

  Pitfalls: Hard to hide the fact this is just a polished soap opera. 

Other lesser used themes include a rough school setting, the tug-of-war political relm, and the knotted existance of a computer programmer.

“Holy Toes”

“So you and your friends are sitting around pop’na brew…” 

Those are the words I most closely associate with my first year of college and they didn’t come from another student.  No, those awe-inspiring words are the product of my federal government professor.  This was a man who was obviously in grad school the semester before and had yet to shake off the hangover.

Professor Lee-bert (his actual name although I have played with the spelling a bit.) was a tall man who filled out his clothes as if he were made of marshmallows.  His tight jeans, button up shirts, and cowboy boots forced everyone to wonder how a professor could invest at least six years into higher education and still miss every fashion rule to float down the pike.  His mullet was legendary in the sense that he made it look bad BEFORE everyone else began casting scorn on the hairstyle.

Needless to say, I wanted my picture taken with the man.  Everyday.

“So you and your friends are sitting around popn’a brew…”

Lee-bert understood that a simple maxim wouldn’t be enough to properly convey his grand vision.  To that end, he would deliver his patented line by pointing both index fingers at the students, cinching his arms up like chicken wings, and giving his shoulders a disjointed shake.  It drove the point home EVERYTIME. 

“Oh, I get it now, so what he was saying is that me AND MY FRIENDS, are sitting around and wait, that’s right we were POPPIN’ some brews.  Ok, great.  Now I’m ready for Quantum Mechanics.”

I would be remiss without stressing the dynamic nature of Lee-bert’s cowboy boots.  So grand was this footwear that we gave Lee-bert the unofficial first name of “Holy Toes.”  Only the sweaty toes of this visionary educator are worthy of boots that curled up at the front like elf shoes with wing tips.  A bad hem job on his high water pants barely shrouded the stitched designs.  Add the two-inch heels and turquoise dyed leather and it’s little wonder we idolized him.

As he was saying, “So, you and your friends are sitting around popn’a few brews… (While shopping for boots)”

I may not pop brews but I’ll always raise a frosty root beer in your honor, Holy Toes Lee-bert.

Eugene’s Diary

Dear Diary,

How are you?  It’s me Eugene.  My latest submission to,  “Itchy Lips- The Hidden Plague” just bombed.  ChiefDodo said advertising revenue dipped almost 60% in just one day.  That’s almost 6.4 million game tokens at Chuck UP Cheese!  ChiefDodo is normally really upset about these sorts of “oopsies” but he had recently sold off all his stock options and bought heavily in  What a smart guy!

My supervisor, Richard “Don’t Call Me Dick” Short, knew I was down about my results and dropped by office.  He had his Self-Esteem Box with him.  I love the Self-Esteem Box!     

Oh, you don’t know what that is do you Diary?  Ok, it’s an old shoebox with a whole bunch of executive titles in it.  If you’ve done something really remarkable, you can draw from the box and whatever is on the card is added to your title!  Isn’t that great!  You even get new business cards!    

Just to make it interesting, Richard has tossed in some names with negative connotations.  He like to say it makes the box more interesting.  He told me that there were fifty positive title enhancers for every negative one.  Well, wouldn’t you know it!  I’ve pulled four times and have somehow gotten the same thing three times!  Dick says if I pull from the Self-Esteem Box I’ve got to keep what I pull. 

As of today, my new title at is Hazard Executive of Hazardous Hazards.  It doesn’t really roll off the tongue like I think it should.  Nuts!

In more interesting news, my office in’s office high-rise allows a nice view of Central Park.  I’ve set up a telescope and I watch for crimes during my lunch break and for about ten minutes after work.  I’ve got my phone with thumb set to speed dial 911.  I’ve even given myself a superhero name.  Do you like Sight Man With The Earth Rending Power Of Vision?  Me too. 

Unfortunately the police don’t.  I’ve accidentally hit the button a couple of times and when I tell them it’s just Sight Man With The Earth Rending Power Of Vision they don’t seem to get it.  Maybe I should put it on my business card.

Also, I still like Verna.  I know she’ll like me once her face heals.

P.P.S  I hate my boss ChiefDodo.  He is stupid.  He keeps taking all my jellybeans!  I’ve started tossing in a mothball or two into the bowl but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

Yours truly,

A Car Isn’t Just A Car

Allow me to introduce you to the 945 (pronounced nine forty-five).  It’s a blue 1998 Ford Escort ZX2 that has faithfully transported my carcass to and from work for over ten years. 

The name originated from a date Melissa and I took to downtown Memphis.  I paid to park in a garage and the attendant gave me a thick manila card which had “945” printed in bold ink on the top and near the bottom.  I jammed it into the far left side of the windshield and never removed it thinking that perhaps I could reuse it one day. 

The 945 never garnered the attention I thought it should.  Not too many females glance and smile at a car that stands about five feet tall and weighs less than their stuffed animal collection.  In fact, I often loose it in parking lots behind SUVs and other vehicles that could run over it without the driver noticing. 

Sure, it’s heard the wind-up jokes and the cruel “foooour cylinder, foooour cylinder” chant from the other cars but the 945 maintains a stiff upper bumper.  Scratch that, the front and rear bumpers are plastic so they flex pretty easily, but you get the idea.

The 945 has taught me some valuable lessons about inanimate objects.  At one time, I believed cars incapable of displaying personality traits or anything close to decision-making but I was grossly mistaken.  I’m not sure how it began or how they are produced but each time I open my car door I am greeted with a different foul aroma.  I could not be more serious! 

Take last week for example… I’ve created a short table that best describes how the 945 greeted me each day.

My car had a hint of rotten plums, stale vanilla air freshener, and a strong lean toward sweaty gym sock.

My car prepared me for the workweek with the aroma of untended rain bucket, my brother’s masculine body spray, a whiff of musty paperback, and a teasing bit of flatulence.

This is where the teeth of the workweek really bit.  To fortify me, the 945 filled my lungs with the fruity echo of rancid apple juice, grandpa’s musk, seventh grade bathroom stall, and essence of loaded diaper.

Hump-day!  I opened my door and sensed zit cream, permanent marker, and an alluring accent of composted spearmint leaves.

My vitality was wearing down.  Not to fear!  The 945 came through with the energizing scents of a European women’s soccer team. 

The 945 gets lazy and tries to take the day off by filling the interior with the almost visible scent of a discount French cheese trolley.

It was a great day to rest.  My car’s nasal bouquet was a mix of porta-potty at a Grateful Dead concert and grandma’s guest bed after cousin Eugene slept in it.  (Note:  This is’s Official scent.)

Melissa almost refuses to drive anywhere in the 945 because she doesn’t appreciate the masterful work the car does in perfectly harmonizing these delicate olfactory offerings.  She is constantly asking me why my car stinks so badly. 

“How should I know!?”  I respond in a huff.  “Why don’t you go outside and ask the artist?”