I called Claas Buschmann, a forensic pathologist in Berlin who was one of the authors of the German paper, to learn how to protect myself from that smelly face-eating son of a bitch I keep in my house.
First, the running shoes have found a new home in the garbage can and will not be showing their smelly faces around the house any time soon.
People love innovation, you need to come up with something new; people love to fume, you need to give them something to fume about; people are indifferent, you need to shock them: shove something smelly in their face, something offensive, something repugnant.
There is one sitting in my carriage right now as I type this on the underground and he hasn't once read over my shoulder, dropped his wet umbrella on my leg or stuck his smelly armpit in my face.
As journalists, we often face crowded, smelly press rooms at conferences and events.
Nobody like to talk to someone with their smelly breath going in their face.
I am lying face down on my smelly mat and I feel my will escaping.
(Berlusconi explained that he wanted "fresh faces," and not the "smelly, badly dressed" politicians of the left).
Lovely to look at, but smelly.
Imagine your beautiful face having all this after smoking: yellow teeth, wrinkles, smelly breath, brittle hair, and smelly clothes.
She describes them as tireless workers, caught between foot and shoe in a sliver of space, rubbed and smelly by the day's end -- usually, let's face it, despised.
