And I am a woman who is forced to ask: "WHAT IS THAT SMELL?" at least fifteen times per day. But this was bad. This was the aroma of sauerkraut and German sausage and German beer. The Cap'n was enjoying an hour of being home alone with a Man Meal and a ball game. And he'd smoked a cigar on his way home in anticipation. The pan that had been used to cook this hideous concoction was now sitting on the stove - unwashed - perfuming my entire house.

But one thing smells worse.
Your shared boudoir the next morning, when you feel certain you've woken up face-down on the sticky floor of the Hofbrau Haus in Munich on November 1st. We've come to expect the inanity of Christmas in July. I was not expecting Oktoberfest in August.
The. End.
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