I tried a new scent of Zest soap. It smells like urinal cakes to me -- though I really can't say how, or why I would know what urinal cakes smell like.

Am I repressing some horrible incident involving the school janitor, or worse, a clown? I doubt it. At least nothing comes to mind.

Maybe it actually smells like toilet cleaner. That might explain the urinal cake association. At any rate, it doesn't seem like a very good scent for soap.

Ah yes, our good friend soap. Sure, it can be used to fix a stuck zipper, but even more important, is it's job as a social lubricant.

There's no way around it, smelling good is important. Personally, it's one of my biggest fears -- well, not smelling good anyway.

I was thinking about this the other day as I was scratching my irritated armpits. Yeah, I know -- sort of personal, but there's a reason for the irritation.

You see, I have in my possession a special deodorant-type product that all but completely eliminates underarm wetness. In doing so, it prevents the production of the main ingredient of underarm smell, and makes me more pleasant to be around. You see, I'm doing this for all of you!

The packaging of my secret stink weapon is quite specific -- it's only supposed to be used at night. Which is why (as a freak), I call a "second tier" product into play after my morning shower. This particular product claims to be so effective that users may even "skip a day." (Crazy talk!)

When used together, the two products create arid plains, where rain forests once existed. Any lingering soap scent is just frosting on the, well, urinal cake.

The only problem is that the first product causes irritation. Really, pretty significant irritation at times. Itchy, red and raw -- but not stinky! Thinking of this irritation as an acceptable outcome probably speaks volumes about my self-esteem. But to me, it's worth it.

Anyway, I'm not the worst one. We used to work with a woman that had her underarm sweat glands removed! Can you imagine that? Hah! Can you imagine how much that cost? Hmm . . . do you suppose our insurance covered it?