Shit I Hate: Dragon Breath

This morning I had a hearing Downstate (which, for you non-Illinoisans, means anything south of Joliet or, for some reason, west of Aurora -- I was legitimately Downstate, though, in scenic Bloomington). The opposing attorney tracked me down before the hearing to discuss the schedule that was the subject of the hearing. Superficially he seemed like an agreeable person: well-coiffed hair, a nice suit, and a smile that could melt the polar ice caps without the help of manmade global warming. Then he opened his mouth. It smelled like gasoline and burnt hamburgers. I could barely point my face in this man's direction as he asked me simple questions, none of which I could answer because I was concentrating so hard on not vomiting in anger. It invokes nothing but ire and hate when I smell breath that bad. Sadly, this is not the first time I've been a victim of breath of this fortitude. At one of my old firms, the two named partners had a running contest to see whose breath could smell more like the inside of a decomposing tire covered in human feces and burning hair. Both won. How does it get to that point? Years of black coffee and feasting on the charred flesh of innocents, I suppose, combined with an indifference to oral hygiene. But sweet Christ, people, is it that out of the question to brush your teeth (and occasionally your tongue) before leaving the house in the morning? If so, make some changes for everyone's sake. The reason I hate you is because your condition is completely preventable, yet you ignore the effluent odor flowing unimpeded from your mouth. I would say that you know who you are, but you obviously don't. There's a reason people look down when you talk to them. If you are reading this, assume that your breath reeks. I bet mine does, which is exactly why I carry around a pack of Listerine breath strips wherever I go. Because I want to be hated for who I am, not for the potency of my breath. I strongly suggest you invest in -- and keep with you at all times -- some breath strips, Tic Tacs, Altoids, Chewlie's gum, or even a flask of Rumpleminze, if that's what it takes. For the love of God, use those weapons before you walk into a room (or elevated rush hour train car) full of people. And brush twice a day. And visit a dentist twice a year. And don't speak to anyone.