FROM THE DESK (COUCH) OF STINK WHISPERS HQ:
It’s not the greatest story ever told. It’s more like if the third-worst story ever told had a sloppy back-alley affair with the cousin of the fourteenth best story ever told and had a baby story nine months later. Anyway . . .
Sensing that precious, silent moments such as these were meant to be filled with words, not empty pauses, the young man leans in and whispers two words directly into the face of our once-sleeping beauty. “Hey, Baby.”
Then, it happens. Confusion overtakes her face. Before the hushed words can register in her brain, she is knocked senseless by the powerful, disruptive aroma emanating from the man’s mouth. Somehow, the gift of speech bestowed upon man by God has proven utterly useless in the face of a morning-breath born of liberal quantities of tap beer, Doritos and a failure to have employed any of a dozen teeth-cleaning techniques available the night prior.
These are the “stink whispers.” The well-intentioned words that prove one immutable fact: one person’s sweetness can occasionally be another person’s sour.
STINK WHISPERS is a place where the best of intentions often end up smelling like used hockey equipment covered in cold cream of mushroom soup. Enjoy at your leisure.
[Note: It’s just opinion and satire, folks. So, let’s not get too up-in-arms over the stuff, okay?]