The Legend of Poo Pourri
A few years ago, someone gave us a bottle of Poo Pourri. The concept is genius: mix really strong herbs with kick-ass essential oils, spray it in the toilet before you go and never be bothered by odor again.
It’s embarrassing when a smell exposes a task you were attempting to do in private.
Just ask my cat.
If it catches on, the world will literally be a sweeter place and that which is flushed will give the fishes the equivalent of aromatherapy.
Finally we put something in the oceans that’s beneficial.
The makers have creative names for masking the different strains of poo. Try Poo-tonium, Poo La La, Royal Flush, DÉJÀ Poo or the rare, coveted No. 2.
Tell me you saw that one coming.
It’s evident the developers don’t take their work too seriously.
Since I’m the sole estrogen producer in my family, I’ve been involuntarily subjected to the strength of various bodily by-products as if that’s a gauge of manliness, a rite of passage. Normally these occur while I’m an unwilling participant, like trapped on long car rides, hotel stays, snow days or in bed with a juvenile—one who thinks the 1000th oven thingy is as funny as the first. Or funny at all.
Oddly, after 18 years of marriage, my husband is still 12.
At least this product makes suffering from bathroom odors as antiquated as Cornholio (and equally as distasteful). And with the recommended 4-6 sprays per sit-down, I’ve gotten competitive. I can now mask that smell in two sprays. I’ve threatened to attempt it in one.
My son insists that the recommended dose is a requirement. Like it’s a law. Like the Earth will stop rotating. I think he wrote to his Senator.
He’s such a rules follower. I wish, someday, he’d just poop outside the box. My cat is more of a risk-taker.
I think he’s really afraid I’ll change the time space consortium and they’ll cancel the revival of Gilmore Girls.
That would definitely land me on a list somewhere.
Hell, I’d put me on a list somewhere!
Trying to cut down on the clutter in the bathroom, I asked my son which can of Febreeze worked better. Since the discovery of the “Pourri,” he confidently said, “None of them.”
Poo Pourri is the Mr. White of air fresheners.
Try hard enough and you will find seven degrees of separation between Breaking Bad and any conversation you will ever have.
Even if they don’t make sense. Like mine.
Recently I bought sixteen fluid ounces of the “Pourri.” I’m sure that landed me on a list. Like I should be watched; pulled aside and frisked.
Hmmm, that sounds sexy. And at my age, that doesn’t happen often. Who’d have guessed a silly bottle of potent poo spray would revive my libido?
Because marriage certainly didn’t.
My husband isn't on board. I told him how much Poo Pourri costs and he hasn’t pooped since. I hope he’s at work when he explodes.
He would make the biggest Dutch oven ever.
I think that’s actually on his bucket list.
Hey, be careful what you wish…
Maybe this new twist on a smelly ol’ task will change the attitude toward dudu universally. We’ll regress back to pet names for our droppings, labels as frisky and species specific as cow pies or horse apples. You know, drunken terms like Lincoln Logs, chocolate volcanos or Tootsie Rolls.
And for you baby boomers, the Gomer Pyle.
I shudder to contemplate the impact on SnapChat.
They say R-O-L-A-I-D-S spells relief, but honestly, being trapped in a small space with indigestion never cleared the whole room.
I have an idea. We need the Poo Pourri plug—for those times when air is passing by something you can’t yet void. Imagine how pleasant that would make your ride in the elevator.
“Did you just fart? That’s marvelous!”
“Thank you. It’s Fresh Fart by Poo Pourri. Happy I could share!”
And so am I.