Broth

Any man with enough swamp ass to boil their balls like chicken broth should be diligent about ritual bathing.

Most men are fools.

If you’re not marrying into the Foster Family Farms, possessing an aroma of chicken stock from the downstairs larder isn’t advisable.

Gary had been with Linda for five years, but after her anniversary inspired rhinoplasty, her latent sense of smell returned. And with it exited her attraction and commitment to Gary.

The grass isn’t always greener— but anywhere seemed ideal if it didn’t carry that haunting smell with it.

The early bird gets the worm— and keeps it for itself, Gary thought as he shifted his chafed thighs. The swivel chair sunk below him like clockwork during his shift. Rise and fall, rise and fall. The sun, empires, and this fucking chair. Gary’s mood teetered like a sazerac sippin’ acrobat as unexpected bachelorhood brought with it cheap beer and frozen pizzas. The last fresh vegetables were weeks off and he’d already forgotten what table arrangements looked like.

Gary had returned to the fraternity of the bowl and towel. If it couldn’t fit on or in either of those, it wasn’t worth the effort.

Cheesy slices and slop chili. He tried not to complain. Even working up the nerve to call a urologist before hanging up. The dial tone sounded like a lazy cicada as it begged him to hang up.