Hi Gene

Stop the Stink, Save Humanity

Now before you call your cousin, your preacher, or your favorite barbershop conspiracy theorist—no, this is not about anybody named Gene.
I just yelled “squirrel” and some of y’all looked.

We’re talkin’ hygiene.
Male hygiene.
Your hygiene.

And let me tell you right now, some of y’all are out here assaultin’ the public with a funk so aggressive it should come with a warning label and a hazmat team.

First let me tell you about my superpower:
I got a sniffer that could work for Homeland Security.

I can detect The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly of WTF smells.
(If you caught that reference, triple kudos and a slow squint in your direction.)

I’m sure Clint Eastwood would just light a cigar and walk away, but there are times when the rest of us become a captive audience for certain olfactory atrocities.

The Good:
• Chicken frying in a cast iron skillet. (Glory be.)
• Honeysuckle in the spring.
• Maybe—just maybe—a soft whisper of real cologne. Not something called Midnight Overdrive you found next to the gas station beef jerky.

The Bad:
• That post-gym, no-shower “I’m too manly for soap” aroma.
Newsflash: You smell like gym socks stuffed in a microwave.
• That T-shirt you’ve had on since Tuesday and now it’s Friday.
• Worst of all: body spray applied like you’re trying to ward off demons.
‘Axe,’ ‘Old Spice,’ whatever… it ain’t working.
You smell like bathroom tile cleaner with a hint of Eau de Last Night’s Bad Choices.

The Ugly:
If you can smell you, we’ve been smelling you since Wednesday.

And on the subject of breath:
If it could strip paint off drywall, don’t lean in like we’re sharing secrets.
Floss. Brush. Gargle. Repeat.

Now, on to grooming.
Some of you spend more time detailing what’s below your belt than what’s growing out your face and ears.
You’re not a Chia Pet—handle it.

• Eyebrows? Tame ’em.
• Nose hair? Yank it.
• Ear hair? Pull it, shave it, wax it. Whatever it takes.
• That weird tuft on the back of your neck that looks like a patch of beard gone rogue? Get rid of it.

And fellas, if you do have a beard or a mustache, it counts.
If it smells like soup, you don’t have facial hair—you have leftovers.

Now ladies,

I’ve been nice. I’ve left y’all out up to this point, but I have to share a little of the love. So here we go.

Perfume.
If there’s a visible cloud trailing you like Pigpen in pearls, it’s too much.

I once got on an elevator with a woman wearing something that smelled like “a mixture of Obsession, Febreze, and Fabuloso.”
A gallon of it!

We were both headed for the 6th floor.
By floor 3, I was dizzy.
By floor 4, I was beginning to sweat and feel a little nauseous.
I staggered off at 5 and took the stairs.

You might think, “That’s not me.”
Sugar, if you’ve ever wondered if you’re using too much—you are.
If people can smell you coming five minutes before you get there… yeah, you definitely are.

Listen — just smell clean.
Or better yet, smell like nothing.
Like fresh air.
Not like the exhaust fan at the Evening in Paris headquarters.

If you laughed? Gagged? Or maybe questioned your scent strategy?
Hit that share button, leave a comment, and subscribe.

Because The Condition isn’t chronic—You can fix it with a little soap and a lot of restraint.