Ben Kissel

Oh, hell no.

You just did.

Anyways, that's not the fun part.

When I tell you the breath on that man could have killed every single competitor in the Enhanced Games.

Oh, my God.

I couldn't tell you what it looked like, what he said, what I said, what anyone said, because that smell was so powerful and terrible.

Oh, my God.

It's been years, and I can still smell it.

If I think about it for too long, it will ruin macaroni for me, because I'm pretty sure it was from the, like, 10 pounds or something stupid of macaroni that he had just benched.

I can't even describe it.

I dated a wrestler for years, and during wrestling season, when he had to cut weight, he would get awful cotton mouth, and that was bad.

I've smelled the breath of people with a rotten tooth or two, and that's bad.

This was a new level of horror.

Hey, come on.

This is slander.

Hey, you know, hey.

That's a part of it, dude.

I'm sorry.

If you don't think that the man whose own hole and gullet is a sarlacc of such power, of such pure American fortitude, you don't think it's going to give off some exhaust?

Fuck.