In which I evidently make an obscene comparison involving the smell of our breakroom fridge.


One of my favorite Scott stories, if I may take the liberty of relating it and probably getting some minor details wrong, goes as follows:

One day Scott greeted his mother with a wink. “Hey there, toots!” he said.

“Scott!” She exclaimed, visibly shocked. “Don’t call your mother that!” Scott couldn’t figure out why she was so offended, but just shrugged it off.

When his father got home, Scott’s mother bought it up right away. “Do you know what your son called me?” she said. “He called me tits!” Whereupon Scott fell all over himself trying to straighten out the confusion.

This came to mind because I had a similar thing happen today. Following up on an earlier conversation we’d had about the rotting stench coming from our breakroom fridges, the facilities manager asked me to check if they’d been cleaned overnight as per his instructions. I did, and e-mailed him with my answer:

Well, I just had a sniff. One wasn’t bad at all, but the other made me say, “PHWOAR!”

Later I saw him. “That was funny what you said about the fridge,” he said with a chuckle. “Whore!”

2 Responses to “In which I evidently make an obscene comparison involving the smell of our breakroom fridge.”

  1. 1 Scott

    I think you summed up the Scott story pretty well. Also, it’s really difficult and stressful to explain yourself quickly enough in that situation to avoid having your father kill you.

  2. 2 Anonymous

    Interestingly, if you were to say/write “phwooar!” in the UK, people would think you were turned on for some reason.

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