Dear Mr. Can I Use Your Phone:

By all means.  I love nothing more than strangers in dire need of a thorough grooming breathing any and all diseases they may be harboring (and in your case, they may be numerous) all over something I regularly hold to my face. Nothing repays kindness like TB, I say.

May I also say that when I refuse your request due to what in this case might be a healthy dose of germaphobia, ramping up your sob story won’t help.  Even if I could overcome the image of your halitosis engulfing my phone in a bacteria-laden cloud, the smell of bullshit makes me contrary.  Also, just, you know, FYI, telling me you got out of prison a mere two hours ago isn’t winning you sympathy points, and the story about your girlfriend’s kids hating you because she is in the hospital with jaundice makes me think you have hepatitis, which in turn makes me even less inclined to lend you my phone.

Oh, and by the way, do they not allow toothbrushes in prison?  Were you a shiv risk?  Seriously, could they not have slipped you a little mouthwash?  I think I’ll go sit over there with Freaky Guy Who Smells Like Dog.

Can’t Ding the Bell Fast Enough,

Lily

Dear Scary Fetishist:

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, nyet, nein, non, nuh uh, NO!  No, the answer is no. Have I mentioned no?  You may very definitely NOT lick the rain (or anything else for that matter) off my feet.  In fact, you may not even look at my feet ever again.  If I catch you even glancing sideways at my feet with anything I might perceive as lust in your eyes, I will quell the flame of your desire with a swift bucket of kick in the nuts. That is my pledge and promise to you, you nasty little eye raper of feet.

Of course, I am a bit concerned that this might turn you on.  I don’t understand how the attraction to feet works, exactly.  You could view my foot firmly lodged in your groin as the ultimate sexual fantasy, but I am willing to bet that, unless your fetishes include a strong masochistic streak, the pain of the contact will outweigh any pleasure you might derive from it.

Extremely Sincerely,

Lily

P.S. Thanks for ruining flip-flops for me, asshole.

Props to Mae for finding the perfect photo.

Dear Freaky Guy Who Smells Like Dog:

Why do you smell so heavily of wet dog? Every time you get on the bus, I am puzzled by your odor. You don’t look like the sort of person to whom people would entrust their pets, and after brief yet numerous moments of scrutiny, I have yet to see any animal hair on your clothing. This leads me to believe that either you wallow each morning in a pack of moist, stink-laden poodles, or that you personally emit the smell of a highly active labrador retriever with very little regard for his personal hygiene.  Given that the former is more improbable, and that I surely would have seen some evidence of dog on you at some point, I am choosing to believe the latter.

But still, I wasn’t aware this was a smell that humans were capable of producing without the aid of a canine friend. You have taught me something. Thank you for this mind-expanding yet olfactory system-bending experience, now please, kindly sit downwind.

Incidentally, if you are reading this and you smell like yams, I am not referring to you. You are Mysteriously Yammy Man, not Freaky Guy Who Smells Like Dog. However, I would also like to know why you always, ALWAYS smell like yams. I look forward to your reply.

Best,

Lily