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06/22/2020
Fittleworth
21 Reviews
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Fittleworth
59
Sorrow box: Ask Dr Onckelmann!
"Hababah! And again bah!"
Mömselbach pulled his face in agony and defiantly put his lower lip forward.
For some time now, he has found little pleasure in looking after the grief box of an odorous community.
Decades ago this was still a pleasant and prosperous wandering through astonishing expanses, not to say the whole world of exquisite elixirs, but now a lack of exclusivity and subtlety, which was to be found there, desolated all joy and lastingly diminished all prosperity. Consequently, the column "Ask Dr. Onckelmann" became more and more a depressing sequence of seemingly always the same questions.
Should he continue to devote himself to them?
"Nevermore!" murmured Mömselbach in disgust Then he shook dramatically.
"Hach," it thought in him, "you want to run amuck!"
What, he asked himself, made people ask him questions about boring, arbitrary, interchangeable and uninspiredly adulterated plasters that he could not bring himself to call "perfume"?
Who, he asked himself further, was inclined to voluntarily buy and open such a brew, to become an everlasting nefarious ... no, but rather a quite nefarious harassment of innocent passers-by, street trees and the latter's inherent bird life?
A large number of the inquiries in his agony box consisted of justified, but miserably formulated complaints about declining quality and durability of popular, well-known, but not proven fragrances.
These had apparently fallen into the hands of a syndicate of marauding, nefarious, internationally networked despisers of taste.
They regarded it a priori as their noblest duty to drive their fellow men to weariness and make them the object of their well-meant but unspeakably tiresome educational efforts.
Recently, they have been using psychological cruelties called "reformulation" to target the perfume lover as such and the object of his affection in order to depress the latter and cause lasting damage to the latter.
Or to be rotten.
If that's still necessary.
Some of the sweetly threadbare or even sweetly penetrating creations described as "new" seemed from the outset to be designed to promote the general decay of all aesthetics, and this also seemed to be the declared aim of the general olfactory levelling.
And now this.
In his grief box there was an inquiry whose sender called himself Schantall Mutzenbecher-Gumpicht. Mömselbach immediately feared the worst and was not disappointed.
Schantall Mutzenbecher-Gumpicht bothered him with a jeremiad, the meaning of which he was able to unravel after reading it several times to such an extent that the content became clear to him.
The blissful maiden intended to noblite him, Mömselbach, to the arbiter elegantiarum and asked him for his opinion on a water of scent, which she sought to acquire for the apparently scantily entrusted one.
However, Mömselbach quickly overcame the speechlessness that arose in the face of this idea when he remembered the disgusting brew.
Following the dictates of the taste disdainers, the product in question, which had been requested and was obviously quite in demand, had also been conceived by Bulgari as an almost malicious attack on the still intact olfactory nerves of normal people. As expected, as well as successfully, they had created a swirling sweetish synthetic uniform mash, enriched with so-called woody notes, which tried to imitate imitation plywood.
Very unproductive, this stuff.
Especially since, to be on the safe side, extremely durable notes had been added, which were deceptively similar to those of an aging, charred plastic shower curtain.
Many people to whom Mömselbach felt a friendship or a bond in some other way were, in view of the rumours of this base spoon, enthusiastic shouts like "Yuck! "What's that smell?" or "Help! Call the fire brigade and ambulance!" escaped Mömselbach agreed with them in enthusiastic rejection.
Therefore he opened the answer intended for Schantall Mutzenbecher-Gumpicht with the intimate words:
"Dear, devastated madam!"
"This fragrance" Mömselbach then continued with his own fine heart beat, "resembles a warty toad who does not want to become a princess in spite of lush smooching. The washed-out sweetness, which is doomed to enter into an unhappy liaison with the penetrating note of subtly fuming plastic, will hopefully one day be happily lost in the orcus of oblivion. This fragrance is one of those creations that no one misses even when they are still with us. You, my lady, should refrain from thinking of him. On the other hand, I concede that this brew is a sufficient and unique reason to be predestined for a splendid inner-family quarrel with a subsequent divorce.
Your very devoted Dr. Yannik-Sebaldus Onckelmann"
So, Mömselbach thought, it's probably a futile labour of love, but this perforates me most tangentially.
"Ha!" he murmured pensive, "how did the great philosopher Balthasar Matzbächen speak? He said: "On a slope, inclination is my duty!
Mömselbach pulled his face in agony and defiantly put his lower lip forward.
For some time now, he has found little pleasure in looking after the grief box of an odorous community.
Decades ago this was still a pleasant and prosperous wandering through astonishing expanses, not to say the whole world of exquisite elixirs, but now a lack of exclusivity and subtlety, which was to be found there, desolated all joy and lastingly diminished all prosperity. Consequently, the column "Ask Dr. Onckelmann" became more and more a depressing sequence of seemingly always the same questions.
Should he continue to devote himself to them?
"Nevermore!" murmured Mömselbach in disgust Then he shook dramatically.
"Hach," it thought in him, "you want to run amuck!"
What, he asked himself, made people ask him questions about boring, arbitrary, interchangeable and uninspiredly adulterated plasters that he could not bring himself to call "perfume"?
Who, he asked himself further, was inclined to voluntarily buy and open such a brew, to become an everlasting nefarious ... no, but rather a quite nefarious harassment of innocent passers-by, street trees and the latter's inherent bird life?
A large number of the inquiries in his agony box consisted of justified, but miserably formulated complaints about declining quality and durability of popular, well-known, but not proven fragrances.
These had apparently fallen into the hands of a syndicate of marauding, nefarious, internationally networked despisers of taste.
They regarded it a priori as their noblest duty to drive their fellow men to weariness and make them the object of their well-meant but unspeakably tiresome educational efforts.
Recently, they have been using psychological cruelties called "reformulation" to target the perfume lover as such and the object of his affection in order to depress the latter and cause lasting damage to the latter.
Or to be rotten.
If that's still necessary.
Some of the sweetly threadbare or even sweetly penetrating creations described as "new" seemed from the outset to be designed to promote the general decay of all aesthetics, and this also seemed to be the declared aim of the general olfactory levelling.
And now this.
In his grief box there was an inquiry whose sender called himself Schantall Mutzenbecher-Gumpicht. Mömselbach immediately feared the worst and was not disappointed.
Schantall Mutzenbecher-Gumpicht bothered him with a jeremiad, the meaning of which he was able to unravel after reading it several times to such an extent that the content became clear to him.
The blissful maiden intended to noblite him, Mömselbach, to the arbiter elegantiarum and asked him for his opinion on a water of scent, which she sought to acquire for the apparently scantily entrusted one.
However, Mömselbach quickly overcame the speechlessness that arose in the face of this idea when he remembered the disgusting brew.
Following the dictates of the taste disdainers, the product in question, which had been requested and was obviously quite in demand, had also been conceived by Bulgari as an almost malicious attack on the still intact olfactory nerves of normal people. As expected, as well as successfully, they had created a swirling sweetish synthetic uniform mash, enriched with so-called woody notes, which tried to imitate imitation plywood.
Very unproductive, this stuff.
Especially since, to be on the safe side, extremely durable notes had been added, which were deceptively similar to those of an aging, charred plastic shower curtain.
Many people to whom Mömselbach felt a friendship or a bond in some other way were, in view of the rumours of this base spoon, enthusiastic shouts like "Yuck! "What's that smell?" or "Help! Call the fire brigade and ambulance!" escaped Mömselbach agreed with them in enthusiastic rejection.
Therefore he opened the answer intended for Schantall Mutzenbecher-Gumpicht with the intimate words:
"Dear, devastated madam!"
"This fragrance" Mömselbach then continued with his own fine heart beat, "resembles a warty toad who does not want to become a princess in spite of lush smooching. The washed-out sweetness, which is doomed to enter into an unhappy liaison with the penetrating note of subtly fuming plastic, will hopefully one day be happily lost in the orcus of oblivion. This fragrance is one of those creations that no one misses even when they are still with us. You, my lady, should refrain from thinking of him. On the other hand, I concede that this brew is a sufficient and unique reason to be predestined for a splendid inner-family quarrel with a subsequent divorce.
Your very devoted Dr. Yannik-Sebaldus Onckelmann"
So, Mömselbach thought, it's probably a futile labour of love, but this perforates me most tangentially.
"Ha!" he murmured pensive, "how did the great philosopher Balthasar Matzbächen speak? He said: "On a slope, inclination is my duty!
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