The Stench of Success

February 3, 2012

Everyone‘s fucking famous these days. All you need is to get your mug on a website, sign up to one of a vast range of lame-arsed reality shows or stand in the window of a telly studio waving like a fucking moron while morning television presenters pretend they don’t want to shove a boom mike up your attention-grabbing date.

There’s only one thing that seems to differentiate the average self-important knob-in-the-street from the truly, undeniably, scumbag-papparazzi-attracting famous:

Fragrance.

That’s right. Wearing a spangly bikini on a 360-degree stage while miming into a blingy microphone won’t do it anymore. Receiving twelve million dollars for pretending to cry in front of a fucking camera won’t do it anymore. It’s not enough that people recognise your face, your clothes, your voice or your fucking backhand. In the twenty-first century, you have to have a famous odour.

Kylie has one. P.Diddy has one. Paris Hilton (remember her?) has fucking eight or something. Even Peter Andre has one, and it doesn’t smell like knob, surprisingly.

But what about those well-knowns who aren’t on stage, screen or sports field? Why does the market only support the stench of the pretty people? What about those other, less glamorous humans who, despite their lack of costumery, entourage or internationally-acquired pay-babies, nevertheless have made a big enough footprint in our lives to warrant their own overpriced bottle of stink? May I suggest the following:

Tony Abbot’s ‘No’
Tony’s manly new fragrance expertly blends ambition, a hint of the ocean unsullied by refugees and the musty family values of yesteryear. So close to the top job you can smell it, this fragrance reeks of desperation.

Julia Gillard’s ‘Soft’
At first sniff, this fragrance blend promises freshness, boldness and invincibility. Once it’s out of the bottle it softens the resolve of any hard-line policymaker, making the wearer an apologist for any constituents with the power to woo the Liberals if they don’t get their way.

Kyle Sandiland’s ‘Fat Slag’
Worn by Jackie O and a swarm of gutless, adolescent media executives, Fat Slag has a rambunctious, cheeky scent that is perfect for radio. Notes of egoism and misogyny will linger long after the bottle’s use-by date.

Melinda Tankard Reist’s ‘Feminismish’
No musky, alluring, heady olfactory treats here. Just the pure bouquet of white cotton crinoline with the suggestion of godliness and mandated full-term pregnancy.

Gina Rinehart’s ‘Mine! Mine! Mine!’
Artfully crafted from coal dust and the perspiration of the proletariat, this strictly-limited-edition rich essence is available only to non-threatening sycophants. Spray some of this on your ample assets and you’ll smell like 16.8 billion bucks.

Personally, I’d rather smell like a slightly damp, fucking cranky carnivore.

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One Response to “The Stench of Success”

  1. So the scent has been sent. Last line is the most appropriate of all.

Go on then. Have a go.

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