Four summers ago I was living in Palm Beach. The off-season population of that wealthy enclave shrank 10% of its winter height. Few of the fabulously rich resided in their mansions and they appeared once a day to shop at the Publix supermarket.
The only poor were the dutiful off-island workers tending to the vacant estates.
Actually I was the poorest person on the island. My income was $350/week. $300 of which went to my family in Thailand. Living on $50 a week was nearly impossible and my revenge on the idle rich was to abstain from bathing in sweet water.
My daily ablution was in the ocean. A sabbatical from shaving enhanced my scruffy appearance as well as my torn jeans and shredded shirts. The rich would wrinkled their noses in the supermarket aisles. I smiled politely, as I picked out my weekly jug of wine.
$5.99 for 2-liters.
Funny, but I didn't smell dirty to me and neither did a Japanese scientist orbiting in the International Space Station who wore the same experimental underwear for a month. His fellow astronauts were ignorant of this test and he said, "The station crew members never complained, so I think the experiment went fine."
The underwear were supposedly antistatic and flame retardant, which must have been helpful against dingleberries and wet farts. Still the racing stripe must have been impressive.
He had to have smelled worst than me.
But maybe in Space farts don't smell bad.
I doubt it, then again I never smell dirty in Palm Beach.
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