Thanks, dude, for filling this crowded bus with your “captivating” and sickly-sweet cologne. It smells sooo good!

Can you tell I’m rolling my eyes? Because I am. This is sarcasm.

To put it bluntly, you stink! Like morning breath and orange juice.

I mean, who does that? Who slathers on so much Axe Body Spray or Versace Eros or whatever the heck toilet water this guy’s wearing that there are literally visible “smell lines” emanating from his large, confident, erect body? Sheesh!

I can’t be the only one on this bus who’s totally falling under the sexy spell of this clown and his strong, arousing, and enchanting fragrance. Can I? His cologne is definitely stirring something in me. hahahaha.

Am I right, everybody? Don’t you just hate it when people do that?

I mean, Isn’t the smell sort of like a slow dance to “Stardust Memories” at sunset in the lighthouse he lives in? Or like a ride on his sailboat, his one hand one the tiller, the other wrapped tightly around me, the crisp sea breeze tousling his thick hair as he gazes determinedly across the bow. His vision is as straight and true as his scent. I clutch him and peer longingly into his piercing eyes.

You know what I mean.

it’s a lot of cologne—the guy took a bath in the stuff!—but he’s not bad looking, for a pudgy middle-aged guy, standing there holding onto the railing in his pleated slacks and tucked-in polo shirt, reading a folded-up Wall Street Journal. He’s success-minded. I like that.

You all smell it, right?

His bewitching scent whisks me away like a trail of rose pedals to a bed of pillows in his Bedouin tent, satin sheets billowing in the desert wind in slow motion. He stands there, just like on this bus. When his eyes meet mine. he welcomes me into his web of seduction. He tosses the newspaper aside and extends an outstretched hand to me. The drudgery of my daily commute and my soulless 9-to-5 existence melt away in his essence. I belong to him.

His pheromones—like sweet ambrosia—swirl around me like a Siberian tiger slowly and methodically stalking its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce and take me bodily into a world of indescribable ecstasy. Evolution itself commands me to submit to him.

Am I right? What is happening to me?

Defile me on a balcony overlooking the Mediterranean, mysterious stranger! Stand up suddenly from our luxury candle-lit dinner and send the place-settings crashing the floor as you make wild love to me on the tabletop. Violate me at a costumed sex party while the elite guests watch and swoon and faint. Pleasure me in a violent thunderstorm under the rainforest canopy as the animals wail around us, moved to madness by our unbridled passion!

I’m lost in the aroma of desire! Someone help me.

Sebert Avenue is the next stop. Don’t leave me, my love! If you get off, my screams of torment will echo throughout the Alston Number Four bus until the end of time. I can’t live without the allure of your sweet cologne! Your betrayal will turn my heart to ash!

Take me with you! I’ll quit my job. You’re my master, my vampyre, and I your thrall, ready and willing to bare not only my succulent flesh to you, but my abject obedience as well. Pierce my virgin skin, Nosferatu! fill me with your gift of everlasting sin! Damn my helpless spirit for all eternity. I’m yours! I give you willingly all that I am—my blood, my devotion, my soul!

I await your commands. I will kill for you!

Want Scott Dikkers to kill for you? Check out other masterpieces in his column, here.