I shall now tell you the story of “The Stinky Fat Black French Girl Who Was Omnipresent in London.” It is a true story, and it happened to me. (I was not the title character.)
Upon arriving in London, I was delighted to find a place that would allow me access to the Internet for only one “pound” for 15 minutes. Now, since English money is very colorful and festive, I had a hard time treating it like real money. “You want one of these pink ones in exchange for that doughnut?” I would say to a shopkeeper. “Fine! Here, have a yellow one, too!” So paying a “pound” for 15 minutes of Internet time seemed like quite a bargain.
It was while I was checking my e-mail that I first encountered Stinky Fat Black French Girl. Note that I have arranged those descriptors in order of importance: That she smelled bad was the most noticeable thing about her; that she was female, I almost overlooked altogether.
I smelled her before I saw her. I was bombarded by a sudden blast of body odor powerful enough to curdle milk, and I turned to see whence it came. I assumed I would find a flaming bag of dog excrement sitting next to me, or perhaps Satan smoking a cigar made out of Dom DeLuise’s underpants. But instead, I saw this person. She was stinky, yes; she was also quite large, and black, and she was speaking and writing in French.
(Pardon me if “black” is not the term I ought to have used. “African-American” doesn’t apply, obviously, since she wasn’t American, and “African-French” doesn’t sound right at all. Plus, I think we can agree that the title I have given her is already long and unwieldy enough without attempting to add an ill-fitting bit of political correctness to it.)
So she was all of those things, but first and foremost, she was stinky. She was knocking birds out of the sky — and we were indoors! She smelled so bad, she had wavy lines coming off her like cartoon characters do.
I finished my business and fled as quickly as possible, stripping my clothes off in horror and stuffing them into the nearest rubbish bin as I dashed out into the night. The next day, when I returned to the same Internal terminal, I found Stinky Fat Black French Girl there again (still?), typing e-mails and being stinky. Two nights later, she was there again (still?), stinky and e-maily as ever. Was there no end to her stinkiness? Was there no end to her being there?
A few nights later, I was in London’s theater district, which they call “the West End,” taking in some shows, which they call “shows.” As I emerged from the subway station, which they call a “tube stop,” I noticed a commotion of some kind, which they call a “brouhaha,” and a small crowd gathering, which they don’t have a word for. I figured they were watching a street performer. I elbowed my way to the front and found the source of the commotion was that someone had passed out and was lying on the sidewalk, unconscious.
I tossed him 50 pence — it was more interesting than “Fame: The Musical,” which I had paid 18 “pounds” for — and I was on my way. But as I turned around, whom should I see in the crowd but Stinky Fat Black French Girl! She, too, had noticed the ruckus and was now on her cell phone, apparently summoning medical help, which is more than I was doing.
A thought occurred to me: What if she’s a superhero whose super power is that she smells bad? If you were an evil-doer, you’d consider a foul-smelling defender of justice a formidable opponent indeed. I know I wouldn’t fight her, or touch her, or get near her. And as a Fresh-Smelling Thin White American Guy, I’m probably her arch-enemy. Good thing I made the connection and launched a devastating can of Speed Stick at her before she saw me.