Kevin isn't just a blogger anymore, it's also a scent!
To help ease my passage into old age, the kind-hearted and internationally-fabulous Tara purchased for me a supply of Argentina’s premiere fragrance for men, Kevin. Made from a secret mixture of floral essences, rare oils, ground-up grizzly bear bits, and my sweat–Kevin, pour homme is a strong and unabashedly sensual accessory fit only for the suavest of global gentlemen. You see, long ago, a group of Latin American chemists and high-fashion types came to the Insomnia Lair here in Minneapolis with the idea of putting together a new kind of cologne. After protracted negotiations, I agreed to provide them with seven gallons of my sweat and they agreed to furnish me with a private jet, a phalanx of Uruguayan commandos, a fortress in a hollowed-out volcano, and a generous weekly stipend. Shortly thereafter, the chemists began the long process of synthesizing my sweat into South America’s sexiest commodity. The main difficulty was diluting it to the point at which the human nasal passages could accommodate such raw eroticism. I’m told many people perished in the “experimental phase” of my fragrance’s genesis. This is, of course, a terrible shame, but at least those poor souls died excited.
Eventually, the team of crack scientists were able to water down my machismo to non-lethal levels. It is, predictably enough, a well-guarded figure, but rumor holds that a mere 1/1,000,000,000th of a drop of my sweat is included in each bottle of cologne. Even at these near-homeopathic levels, Kevin is still far too strong to be sold in the United States. The Bush administration, acting on the urging of influential religious conservatives, has interdicted several shipments at the Mexican border and, until Tara’s rare heroism, even I had been denied the opportunity to sample the fruits of my sweat glands.
My friend is a resourceful young lady and was able to smuggle out a small supply of Kevin. Yet even she wasn’t able to procure the cologne itself, as Buenos Aires merchants typically sell out of it the hour it arrives in stock. No, all she was able to get her hands on–-at great personal risk, I might add–-was the deodorant/aftershave combo pack. I was delighted nonetheless. Finally, I would be able to smell my namesake product, I would be able to parade around town proudly splashed with this liquid that so many had died to create.
I wasn’t disappointed by my first whiff. It was subtle, yet overwhelming; gentle, yet abrasive; violent, yet smooth. Like a field of the world’s most beautiful peonies, it was a feast for the senses, yet it was also as refined as a Verdi aria. It took every other artificial scent and beat it senseless, yet it did so with grace and elan. After a few cursory inhalations, I doused and sprayed it upon my person with abandon. True, it burned a little at first, but pain is oftentimes the necessary initiation one must go through to join the ranks of the truly good-smelling. I left my house that day reeking of glory and magic.
Little did I know the trouble I was in for...
Not a minute after leaving my home, I was forced into the realization that I was irresistible to all heterosexual women. This understanding first came to me when a slight breeze blew my enhanced pheremones through a passing minivan’s open window. That’s when the driver–-a middle-aged suburban mom, from the looks of her–-crashed her vehicle into a row of parked cars in a frantic attempt to get closer to me. As she stuck her head through the now-shattered windshield, I could hear her crying, “Come back! I want you! I need you!” Her husband, in the seat next to her, was appalled.
How strange, I thought, but I carried on as though nothing was out of the ordinary. It was early, after all, and I hadn’t had my caffeine yet. Consequently, my first stop was at the neighborhood coffeeshop. The baristas there are typically either uncommunicative or out-and-out sullen, but that day they were different. “You may have your grande frosty froo-froo vanilla latte,” one of the comely vixens said to me, “But first you must remove your pants! And hurry up, before I melt from this unstoppable desire!” Since I was not wearing the most flattering of undergarments, I politely demurred. The barista, however, would have none of it. With a look of sheer, untrammeled lust, she held aloft a great big butcher knife and shrieked, “Take them off now! I can’t resist your awe-inspiring macho vibe anymore, you burning heap of manhood, you!” I am not the type to be intimidated by service industry personnel, however, and so I told that, while I would be happy to satisfy all her physical and emotional cravings at a later date, all I wanted at the present moment was a coffee drink. That’s when she stabbed me. I was lucky to have gotten out of there with my life.
Obviously, Kevin, the fragrance, was not to be trifled with. I told myself that, in the future, I would have to apply it with more discretion. This was confirmed at my next stop. Before I go on to describe the lurid and traumatic events that befell me, I should probably mention that one of the great joys of my life is entertaining the elderly. This is why I am known as Sting-A-Roo the Clown at several nearby nursing homes. Of course, I wasn’t going to let a little thing like an eight-inch gash in my shoulder keep me from the fine folks at Bethesda Arms Assisted Living. Even though I was in dire agony, I threw on my polka-dotted vest, slapped a bit of greasepaint on, and went juggling out into the community rec room. With the benefit of hindsight, I can see that I woefully underestimated the impact my fragrance would have, even in this milieu.
It was chaos, pure chaos. All it took was one sniff and I was besieged by all manner of sex-crazed geriatrics. These people, who ordinarily were chaste and subdued in their enjoyment of Sting-A-Roo’s wacky pratfalls, subjected me to bestial behavior of the most sordid sort. Lucille licked me from head to toe while Flora shredded my clothes with her false teeth. At the same time, Gertrude was attempting to bestow the forbidden kiss upon my groinal region and Myrtle, who I always suspected was a little weird, was attempting to force the leg of her walker up my nether orifice. It was quite an experience (although, I must confess, not an entirely unpleasant one). After several hours, I was finally able to flee. I’m sure I was quite a spectacle stumbling through the streets of Minneapolis in the few scraps of clown garments the Bethesda ladies left me with. Along the way, there was an encounter with a policewoman that I’m not quite ready to share with you people yet. Suffice to say, when I made it back home, I assiduously washed away all remaining hints of Kevin, the fragrance, and, from there, proceeded to have as much of a normal day as was possible under the circumstances.
I suppose that, in the future, I’ll only wear it for special occasions...
