Back in my impetuous blogging days, I was more straightforward with my assessments. For example, the food at TJ's is horrible. Down on Main is a box of noise. The Wheeling Tunnel is fucked up. Basically, I'd just come out and say what was on my mind. Nowadays, I'm going for a more subdued approach. Yeah, sure.
So Saf, what's the problem this time? Well, there is a local tavern that I frequent periodically. Hard to say how many times I've been there. But the time frame extends from 1991 > 2011. Suffice to say, I've been there more times than George Bush, Jr. has said the word "Nuke-u-ler." That's a bad example. Let me put it like this. If every strand of dual-Chrisagii chest hair represented one visit to this place... then, there you go, that's a visit (George Costanza). Hmmm, yet another poor analogy. Fuck it! I've been in there about 1,000 times, okay? So I have a pretty good idea of what the fuck I'm talking about. Now brace yourself for the incoming rant.
For well over a year, this place has smelled like a belligerent sewage treatment plant. Actually, I take that back. It's much worse. The second you enter the place, it hits you like a ton of bricks. To merely use the Jeff RDSVCH term, "This place is ass!" is woefully insufficient. To say this place "smells like ass" is also inadequate. I'd characterize the smell as more of a "tunneling anal sewer." It just has this "wafting vengeance" which is really difficult to quantify. Try ranking it on a scale of 1-100. It's a futile endeavor because this smell falls so far outside the boundaries of what general society considers to be a "bad smell."
There's incinerated human bodies. They don't smell good. There's burning hair at the local beauty salon. That doesn't smell too swell. There's asparagus piss. That's relatively objectionable. But then comes this harsh abuse way out in left field. It reminds me of that trademark Anderson Silva clench, followed by a crushing knee to the head. Much like the octagon, one enters the establishment and tries to size up the opponent. You walk through the first door and immediately feel a slight sense of unease. You get the feeling that something has gone wrong. Then, someone exits the side men's restroom. Ka-Pow! It smacks you directly in the face. There's no time to fight back. Breathe only through your mouth? That ain't gonna help for shit because the scent is on some kind of seek and destroy mission. The fear and trepidation continue as you make your way along the bar. Suddenly, you're in that congested area at the end of the bar. Ker-Blam! You're in what I refer to as the confluence zone. Just like Pixburgh has the Monongahela, Allegheny and Ohio rivers... there's the bar, the restaurant and the smoking/billiards area. This is the most heavily trafficked region and where the stench takes on "superhuman" characteristics. Here's the analogy for the SAT's...
local huffer : paint
confluence zone : acrid stench of incest
You might be thinking... well, I'll sacrifice the desire to be social and just hang out on the restaurant side. And as you head over, an employee pushes open the swinging door. Cha-Dong! The scent has taken on a new directive. You know how that one company's called "Bed, Bath and Beyond." Well, this one is "Ass, Shit and Above." The devastation continues unabated with no concern for historical precedent. There's no fucking escape. You have been assimilated much like the victims of the Borg.
But here's what's totally insane. Everyone is just carrying on as usual. They're all seemingly unfazed. Smiling, laughing, eating, drinking, talking, gesticulating, etc. There's this crazy "we have accepted the stench - it has defeated us - there's nothing we can do about it" vibe. There's an eerie parallel to the Iraq war. Think about it. Okay, were heading in. Followed by the celebratory mission accomplished. But then everything goes to shit. No WMD's, civil unrest, roadside bombs. Nonetheless, we stay the course. Everything's plodding along and then all of a sudden... Boo-Yah! Abu Ghraib hits you in the face. Remember the infamous pyramid picture. I wasn't in the room, but as far as disgusting smells go, this has gotta be the Wheeling equivalent.
Now the obvious question. What can any of us do about this olfactory atrocity? Considering the Denver at New England (-14) divisional playoff game is tonight, I suppose we could pray like Tim Tebow. Maybe we could "pray the smell away." But prayer always fails. Do you honestly think that Belicheck will be "praying to Jesus" for a victory? There you go. There's your answer. After all, I don't give two shits how omnipowerful the lord is. For the "scent of agony" makes the crucifixion look like an enjoyable round of putt-putt golf.
So prayer is out. How about we just "Man-Up" like they do in the Miller Lite commercials. That's right. It's time to Man-up. In this case, we need to initiate the "airing of grievances" (Frank Costanza). Just do something about it. Tell a waitress, tell a bartender. Talk to the owner. Talk to your friends. Hell, Senator Joe Manchin is having those "West Virginia common sense meetings." Broach the subject at the next town hall. Write your congressman. Hang out on the corner by Tim Hortons and hold up a sign. Stand up and shout (Ronnie James Dio)! Just somebody please do something. Anything. I've done all I can and consider this matter closed. Until we get it fixed, I'll be at the 19th Ho.