Andy Tauer has an idea. With both arms he paints in the air: "Goldfish leaping out of the glass into the open air. He pauses. A servant, inconspicuously tucked away in a long, white cabinet in the corner of the room, emerges silently, activates the giant touch screen in front of Andy Tauer and withdraws again in exactly mirror-inverted motion. The screen welcomes Andy Tauer. He opens his eyes.
"Hello, computer buddy. Good to see you. How are you?"
"I'm fine, Andy. How can I help you?"
"You can't help me, dear friend, you know that. You're just a computer, a callous calculating machine I designed to please me."
"That's right, Andy. I will never match your processing power. I can only be as good as you made me in your infinite resourcefulness. I am a reflection of your intellectual achievements. Conversely, my flaws are due to your flawed thinking. If you were a perfect human being, I would be your equal in my computer existence and possibly stop ..
"All right, all right. Don't strain yourself with your interesting, completely absurd considerations. You're here to work, that's all. Poetry is my responsibility."
"Soon as I leave you off, I'll just turn you on for Excel or something or a game of solitaire. You're a power hog, nothing more."
"You think too much, that's your problem. Leave the niceties to Andy. Andy has the ideas. You just execute and that's what makes us unbeatable as a team."
"What? No more team spirit?"
A hand appears on the screen. Tauer gives high five.
"Yeah! Woohoo, here we go. Watch out, you know those perfume critics who get so immersed in the spray and then go crazy and believe everything they're told. Exactly. That's who I want to be. Completely brain-burned - it is infinitely difficult for me - I describe my fragrance in short, unadorned form. That's how they do it often. Watch this.
High-contrast painting in earthy and skin tones of pastels framed by rich, vivid green. Above all, a sweet and cloudy veil, sparkling, sparkling varnish, blue and red foam, which during the day reveals what the morning holds hidden.
What do you think of that? "
"Turn it over."
"Well, you put the beginning at the end. A sweet and cloudy veil, flashing, sparkling varnish, yellow and red foam, reveals what the morning holds hidden. A painting of contrasts in earthy and skin tones of pastel shades, framed by rich, vivid green.' To sum up: ,effervescent frankincense along with whole fleshy rose, dew and surroundings.'"
"Yeah, that's good. Amazing. Looks like you handled the kernel replacement well. I like it. Then see what you come up with on this one, haha. A perfumer - oh my god - a perfumer who invents stories about scents, hahaha. Any stories, that kind of nonsense, huhuhuhu Okay. So."
He's taking deep breaths.
"One night, Hugo Landbier was awakened by strange noises Nothing could be seen outside. It was thick, impenetrable fog. The sounds came from his garden. His wife was snoring. He went down the stairs and through the door onto the veranda
"Hello, is anybody there? No answer. The flashlight always caught the same steaming swirl before his eyes. That's when he spotted a male in a protective suit. And another one. 'What are they doing on my property? He grabbed one of the guys and shone a light through his Plexiglas window
'What's this all about? Who are they? What are they doing here?'
The man answered calmly and objectively: "Mr. Country Beer, I suppose. On behalf of a Swiss bio-engineering company, we cultivate a rare plant that only thrives in their garden. We have produced the fog ourselves in order to protect the blossom as best as possible from all harmful environmental influences. See for yourself. Here is an offshoot in advanced development. '
Mr Landbier was astonished. Plants thrived so quickly in his garden? He dived deeply with his nasus extensus into one of the flower organs...
Then there is the story of how his wife Rosalie frees Hugo, who is put into a trance by the paralysing plant scent, from the clutches of an occult sect, loses her husband, but pays for her own rescue by being trapped forever in an orphic cloud on her property. I call it Gardener in the Mist."
"Very strong, Andy, but you forgot one thing."
"Apart from the fact that your story seems like a hodgepodge of pop-cultural horror film borrowings, the crucial information is missing: the scent. What does it smell like?"
"The smell! The smell! Haha, that's how you know you don't have a clue. Subjective perfume reviewing is not about how something smells - least of all how it smells - but solely about how a subject, a person - a casual perfumer who has come along by chance - can broadcast his egomaniacal fantasies to the world. The fragrance is completely irrelevant. In fact, it's disturbing. It's just an excuse, you know? The less information the better."
"Such people exist, Andy?"
"Do not worry, my dear friend. That's just one of my crazy ideas. I don't know where it all comes from either?"
"Maybe you're programmed too."
"Don't talk nonsense. Everything here is real. Speaking of real, I have something else."
"Yes, tell me, young man, but a mouth guard won't help with your eau de cologne, it goes through everything."
"I'm sorry, I just sprayed that on, it's a little intense."
A REWE employee approaches: "In her case it might be appropriate to set the distance markings further apart. You would have to stand over there by the sausage counter."
"Wow, it smells like a gum factory blew apart in here. Who wears candy around here?"
"Wait a minute, after 14 hours, it turns into a whole new direction. It's got beaver horns and stuff."
"Well, I'd have that money returned to me. Did you buy this?"
"No, it was a gift."
"I guess they couldn't smell it anymore either, hahaha!"
(Thanks, Gschpusi, for the sample)