Bulgari Black

I think I have synthestasia because n my head when I see "Bulgari" I hear Robin Leach say it as in *Robin Leach voice* "we're here on Sophia Vegaro's YACHT in St Tropeeeez and it's stocked with the finest caviaaahr, ch'mpagne, and Bulllllgaaaaahri tampOOONS".  For you kiddos, Robin Leach reported on famous rich celebrities but got caught in London's Regent Park having a some hastily delivered British Anal, upper lip: stiff, and high as Bert's kite on Meth.  He never fully recovered from that dark period.  Elton John penned the hit song, Anal in the Wind and crowds lined Pickleburry Blvd near Primpram Bramble for a midnight dildo vigil.  It was a devastating time for The Brits, is how I'm choosing to remember my story I just now made up about him.
Bulgari Black is vanilla and leather with the texture of a the smoke from a snuffed out candle.  The nose behind this, Anick Menardo, created a metric shit-ton of brilliant fragrances like Le Lebo Patchouli 24 (go sniff this at Barney's, it's not at all patchouli'y, super expensive, and I'm obsessed... Also check out Rose 31), hypnotic Poison (almond coffee cake as hand fed to you by Malecifent), and Lolita Lampicka (licorice Angel, a Parfum du Maxx find -- ge it) and they all have a fuzzy comfortable texture of thick smoke.  The polite scent trail wafts out like the smell of a pie in a Looney Tunes short.  It opens with a great big rubber tire note that I think comes from the interplay of acrid tar and sweet vanilla.  It defies logic that all these notes come together to create something so odd, mysterious, but so darn good smelling.  Great on a guy, but women go get this one now.  I'm giving you homework right now.  Go get it.  It's cheap (nordstrom rack has it for around 30 for 1 oz., and I got the larger size on ebay for 30 dollars with free shipping).  It would be a great office fragrance, it wears close to the skin and means business.  Speaking of office, quit with the shrill assaulting baby-talk-with-vocal-fry florals and wear stuff like this.  It's all, thwack thwack with a riding crop on your boss's tush and he'll like it.  Need more toner! thwack thwack.  Reply-all and clog everyone's email inbox to make sure everyone knows some lackey dropped the ball with those financials, thwack!  Who wants Jimmy Johns I'm buying THWACK. Where the HELL is my freaky fast delivery?! THWACK THWACK. Where's my extra peppers for my Vito unwich? THWACK!  I'm not saying salary disparages don't happen between the sexes, but Versace Bright Crystal is not helping the situation.  Bulgari Black says you are not a fresh cut flower ready to wilt, you are a friggin tractor tire in a La Perla tonga thong ready to fuck some shit up.  THWWAAAAAACK!

 

PLUS

 

 

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Mariah Carey's Lollipop Collection

Before Mariah was pooping out babies, prattling on about butterflies, and screeching in whistletone, she was jumping into pools with high heels on, answering questions in interviews with word-salad monologues about butterflies, and screeching in whistletone. 
The apex of her career happened shortly after she dumped Tommy Mottola -- who reportedly kept her in a giant birdcage with custom large-scale newspaper lining the bottom to collect her substantial and, in some circles, impressive Mariah-poops.  He would rap the side of the cage and bark at her to sing such hits as Vision of Gloves and Hero (Sandwich), while he'd throw meatballs and gravy at her heaving breasts.  He'd have carnival-themed parties and if one of his music industry lawyer friends' palsied hand happened to get one of those gravy covered "eggs" to land in her "bird nest," they'd take home a goldfish and sometimes one of her snapped g-strings.
She kicked his EYEtalian ass to the curb browkayy?! and started wiggling around in various stages of undress.  She did Diva's Live; her body: resplendent in its too tight babydoll cut, her chichis terrifyingly squeezed by a modern marvel of fashion architecture that girded her mammaries into jiggling damp joysacks, her horse-mane hair majestically shooting out of head in tufts of glory. HALELOO the crowd chanted as she bounced and shuffled and did a bit of singing.  Hallelu indeed.
Before or after, at sometime, she made the best album of her career at this time called "Butterfly."  It's really great except for that song that Missy Eliot crapped out for her. Like really? She saves "Oops (Oh My)" for Tweet?  Note to Mariah:  If you want the good songs, just let Missy Eliot fingerblast you on the mixing board like she axed.
Nowadays, Mariah is dressing in too small dresses with unintentionally hilarious consequences and airbrushing abs on.  She pooped out a kid and also had a baby.  She is firmly in the "Diva" tradition of modern pop where we gleefully watch as the artist tries to piggyback on whatever success is happening and keep momentum going by producing catchy, quality songs. But as a joke, we all collectively decide not to buy it just to see them get real sad for a while and make poor life decisions such as taking an Ambien and a Dulcalax before going on the Today Show, shuffling backwards in her too-high high heels going "boop boop, here comes the dump truck" and defecating through her support hose on Hoda Kotb's Chardonnay.
What is most offensive about MC's Lollipop Collection isnt the predictable budget fruity floral scent, but the absolute cheapness of the packaging.  It all comes across the same way a direct-to-DVD movie does -- its cheap, aims low, and out to catch a buck and then end up in a landfill.  There are apparently 6 different scents all based on her most popular and ubiquitous hit songs like "Vision of Love" and 5 others I've never heard of.

What does the juice smell like?  Let's do this buzzfeed style (all gifs stolen from http://mariahgifaday.tumblr.com/)

1.  You spray it on your wrist and you're all

2.  Notice the sillage of the cheap, generic fruity floral and remark

3. If you sprayed "Vision of Love" you noticed its harsh chemical "Freesia" note.  Its a scrubber and you be like

4. What's worse, the smell of Mariah Carey's Lollipop collection or

5.  The scents are depressing enough that you need a new hobby

Madame by Jean Paul Goultier vs. Tokyo by Paris Hilton

On my left wrist I have Madame by the squeezer-of-tits-into-cones fashion designer Jean Paul Goultier, on my right Tokyo from famous-piece-of-shit Paris Hilton. One must have an advanced nose to pick up on the subtleties of notes and structure that these classics of our modern times are imbued with, but one seems a little more appropriate for passing out in the yard with McDonalds fast food garbage strewn about, while the other is just slightly more tuned for chugging Kir Royales at a baby shower. On my left, the wafting fizziness would be the ideal companion for when you're in the mood to use grape vining as your only mode of conveyance for the day and on my right, the syrupy fruit cocktail would be the perfect addition to screeching into a cracked iPhone 3G with one flip flop missing after a Cubs game. While the lightness and luminosity of the left suggests a hastily delivered finger blast behind an Arby's over an overturned bucket of Horsey Sauce, the right's sensual yet tenacious sillage would be perfect for looking out the window sneering like Billy Idol and shaking your right tit vigorously at the garbage man. On my right, the sensual billow of cherry blossom and citrus is for doing what feels good, in this case grinding one out on a shopping cart going up the escalator at Target, meanwhile the left has the elegant billowing presence perfect for wearing a La Perla bra with one strap ripped off from a cock fight and then later pooping the bed.


Both class acts, and are priced to move.  (one of the labels is "favorites" and that goes to Madame: if you want a fun day drinkin' companion, she's a great go-to... Tokyo is just garbage)

Axe the "expert": pretend funk

From Emerson: Asking the expert: Have you found a fragrance that is just pure man pheromones? Armpits, salt water, semen, sweaty balls, and maybe a hint of foreskin? Not fake man smells like sandalwood or overly-sweet 'musk'. Something DIRTY.

Love this.  When I first got into smellin', I was always looking for a novelty.   Dirt by Demeter, Winter 1972 by CB I Hate Perfume.  I read a book called The Perfect Scent, and I found out that none other than Sara Jessica Parker is a funk advocate (and not just because it reminds her of her childhood bedroom that was a twin sized haystack at the local 4H). She caws on about how in our age of brazillianed a-holes, massingil'd vag's, and showering twice a day, deep down, humans like the way we smell.  There is a point where things can turn a bit sour, but most of us if we're honest, appreciate that sweet spot of a jog after a shower, a t shirt after a day at the beach and volleyball, the solar plexus of a tight chested hairy daddy on a hot summer sunday.  Or ringside at one of those fighting programs where straight dudes cuddle and sweat on each other.

Certain funk ingrediants have always been used like musk (deer sac), civet (cat poopers), and stuff that should be funky but isn't like Ambergris (sperm whale colon blockage) that give perfumes a lived in and personal quality.  These ingredients at least on a large-scale production have been replaced by synthetics, but some like ambergris are still highly prized and sells for a ton of money so somebody's using it, but not in big commercial releases.
Surely a mad scientist could concoct a man-smell (there's an anecdote in the Perfect Scent of Hermes house perfumer Jean Claud Ellena making a sweaty socks accord for his kids) and maybe he already has, but once we go photorealistic its like hey, why not just go to the source and not shower for a day or two.  Or three.  The thing with perfumes though is that its sometimes a story, sometimes a poem or haiku, or an impressionist painting but not so much a PBS documentary. It's grownup playtime.  Its for annointing yourself, transforming into Aphrodite, Taye Diggs, or a horny Church nun.  It's show time Synergy.  There are however, options to dip your toe into the funk with pretend funk that can be just as seductive if you're into this kind of thing you sexy funk freaks.

Stat Libre d'Orange's Sécrétions Magnifiques: supposedly an ode to human secretions and by the reactions online to the stuff you'd think its a horror movie in a bottle.  What it really is, is a white floral that has a bleachy off note that turns into the smell of hydrogen peroxide pouring over a wound into a steal sink.  

Thierry Mugler's Womanity: this is a Parfum Du Maxx find (cheap).  Its not like anything out there, and can be unisex.  The marketing, besides the stupid name, included the note of "caviar" which made people go to vag right away.  This is maybe the exact opposite of man-in-a-bottle Emerson is looking for, but it fits with the tangent I'm on.  I don't get full on vag, although my better half Devin with no provocation actually said vagina when he first smelled it on me.  He's been up close to vag so he's more of a vag'spert than I so I'll take his word for it.

This all to say that the closest thing I've found to man-in-a-bottle is Surge Lutens' Muscs Kublai Kahn.  Its a sexy, darkly dry muscy, pretend funk that gives you the impression of getting banged by a hung nordic lumberjack on a fur rug in front of a fireplace.  I have a bottle of Vintage Leather that I sometimes layer over it for the added dadda-grinding-his-jeans-into-a-leather-motorcycle-seat effect.
So work out and dont shower and put on some Muscs Kublah Kahn for that not-so-fresh but not too far gone real funk with promise of sexy adventure faux funk.

Fleur Du Male by John Paul Gaultier

If you've ever seen Disney's Frozen and are a gay man or gay-sensible, you probably noticed in the middle of a middling rehash of a story there's a knockout number where Elsa voiced by the bony faced Idena Menzel (who I pray will not go Maria Shriver'y with those boney features) is finally "out" as a sourcerer to the towns folk and celebrates with a barn burner of a song called Let It Go where bitch lets her blonde weave down, slams the ground with a high heel to make a beautiful jewel toned floor, and does a costume change complete with sissied-up runway strut.  It's camp elevated to the highest consumable art and,  just like seeing Donna Summers Doing the robot to I Feel Love that I saw at the tender age of four, will turn hoards of children into a sophisticated army of manicured people with expendable income.

[milk milk lemonade, 'round that corner...]

 

 

Fast forward 15 years where this tribe of fit and nelly Children of the Cornhole will be adults. Fleur Du Male is a straight faced floral for men of a certain tribe that can pull this off without a wink.  Its for those men manly enough to smell like orange blossoms and be all, what, I smell like flowers brah, jealous?   More specifically, it smells like white flowers, honey, and an odd but not unpleasant plasticky top note that suggests a well manicured hand with no calluses that somehow achieved a six pack and cum-gutters.  I like to pair this with the manly event of grilling.  The charred meat and smoke with the feminine lilt of FDM that throws and projects, cutting through the smoke like a shiv-armed tranny on a duster bender.  It makes me want a hotdog real bad. 

Spray it on.  Fire up the grill.  And I smell like flowers... Jealous brah?

 

I found exactly one can of this stuff at Marshall's and probably yipped when I saw it.  Its discontinued but you can probably order online for a reasonable price.

Madonna's Truth or Dare

MUH DAH FUGGIN NUH DICKSKINS.  Sure sure we caw about how she's "lost it" or yam on and on about her weird filler face that makes her look not horizontally younger but latterally wierder looking, but you got a give it to the mare.  She will go into that fuggin grave when she's good n' well ready to and by god she'll dig it herself too.  She'll throw that shovel down and squat thrust her thick Italian thighs until her last breath out of grillz'd gapped tooth mouth.  So just cool it, she just wants you to feel good and have fun and all you can do is project your insecurities like she's some kind of Rorschach ink blotter blow up doll.  I mean you plural 3rd person; present company excluded... assholes.

[Michael Musto recently pointed out how shes starting to look like mae west]

 

 

 

'Fumey Readers, what is most surprising about this celebufragrance is that she didn't get on this from the get-go.  Debbie Gibson was forward enough to get her name on the apricot-musk bomb Electric Youth in the 80s.  Then J-Lo had a veritable diarrhea force push of her perfumes and flankers which really opened the shart floodgates for poopstars to get into the groove.  PS have you ever realized the entendre in Get Into The Groove?  How can I put this delicately, all her songs with the exception of Dear Jessie are about HER VAGINA.  Music, her vagina makes the people come togethor.  MDNA, your love fits like a glove in her vagina.  Zephyr in my vagina goes quickly for the call of vagina. Give It To Me, her vagina's got no bounderies and no limits.  C'mon VAG, let your body move to vagina.  Vagina-line, feels like im going to lose my vagina.  Etc.  I don't want to beat a dead vagina, after all,  a rolling vagina gathers no cock.

The curiousness of her lateness to the game is compounded by the old fashioned-ness of ToD.  Its a take on a classic 1948 fragrance called Fracas which I smelled once at Neiman Marcus; and from what I remember ToD resembles pretty closely.  Its a loud, diffusive buttery floral note of inky tuberose anchored by vanilla marshmallows.  This would be amazing on a boy with neck tattoos and a mowawk at a knitting circle but besides that I use it for, wait for it, linen spray.  When I'm makin' the bed and gettin' fancy I'll spray 'er down and its quite lovely.  On a woman it seems a little on the nose, but maybe if you had your hair up librarian style, pearls, and a baby blue cardigan with rock-hard nipples poking out it could work.  So its cheap and good (for a couch or bed) but I'm left with why this now and why call it Truth or Dare in the middle of releasing an album called MDMA?  Why hasn't she been puting her name on fragrances longer? The closest Madonna got before Truth or Dare was the patchouli scented liner notes of Like a Prayer.  This couldve been fun for Dick Tracy-20's flapper(no I'm not referring to her vagina) era Madonna with her furs and dresses, cone bras, and Warren and whatnot but doesnt seem to fit name or otherwise with her attempt to make the forward thinking dance album MDMA when ToD was released to perfume counters.
Imagine all the possibilities that slipped through those vascular hands of hers: a modern incense for Ray of Light, a disco Angel bomb for Confessions, a take on leather from her Erotica era.  I don't know, there's professionals that are supposed to be good at this but I just now crapped out three great ideas.

This stuff must've really bombed because as of writing this you can find nuclear-war stockpiles of the stuff at TJMaxx and Marshalls and the go for about 10 dollars a large bottle.

ANTM's Dream Come True

Once my friend in college was 69ing her boyfriend and she came so hard she pooped on his forehead.    

Speaking of forehead, Tyra Banks.  You know, I never thought of her a "supermodel".  I saw her on the cover of Sports Illustrated and stomping down a Victoria's Secret runway in panties but that's about it.  She wasn't really on my radar like such luminaries as Linda Evangalista, Cindy Crawford, or Naomi Campbell or any other model listed in the song Supermodel which was the extent of my Supermodel knowledge circa 1996.
So, in the 2000s she makes this show on the tiniest shoestring of a budget designed to take young women, exploit every drop of money making drama out of them, and spit them back out wrinkled, unable to ever get a real job,  and with an often hilarious haircut and color that goes against their facial features, skin tone, and personality.  Teeyie-tye would always wear these gals down to the nubbins by giving impossible advice to follow like "hey lady we picked for your exuberant personality, tone it down" and then later, "you were so boring, so dial it up, what happened to that girl with the exuberant personality", and then "you're cut , because you can't 'work' the Crystal Gale length Olgilve curled weave with the tightest of curls, shaved eyebrows, and Coco from SWV's nails; in addition you're dialed up high enough with your exuberance but what we needed was for you to tone it down".
She knew to strike when the iron's hot and pumped what seemed like 4 to 5 "cycles" a year until the whole thing puttered to a stop cartoon jalopy style.   It might still be on but I can't suffer to do a google. One of the cycles had the girls shilling a parfum called Dream Come True of which they probably saw a paycheck that Tyty would use to wipe her rich-ass but then let's face it, would probably still deposit the now fecal encrusted cheque because she seems kind of on top of her finances.
One fragrance stands before me, and it smells like slouchy salt crusted vanilla Ugg boot in a bowl of berries and an un-ironic side pony. Perfect for those times when you have to pick up the shattered remains of your life, with no job prospect in sight, after being embarrassed and exploited in front of millions of people.  So slather it on Millenial-Teen-Dreamer as Ty-ty laughs maniacally, puts her Ty-fingies together Smithers style, husks, "eeeeexcellleeeeent" and cashes her poo-cheque.

I got a half used 1oz tester from Marshals for like 3 dollars.