Parody of Dostoevsky's "Notes from Underground." Unless you've read the book, I highly doubt you'll find the following very funny or clever.

I am a smelly man . . . I am a putrid man. I reek of fish and spoiled cottage cheese. My armpits are biological weapons. My stench can clear the downtown 2 train at rush hour in record time. Well, gentlemen, what of it? If God had wanted to make me smell like roses, he certainly would have done so. Besides, I am not ashamed of my stench. And why should I be? Tell me, gentlemen, what is so repulsive about bodily odor? Body odor is natural; in fact, it is healthy. I haven't showered for three months. My body has not been tainted with the artificial fragrance of soap or scented shampoo. My three white T-shirts are almost the color of black coffee. My hair is so laden with grease that I can style it anyway I want without having to waste money on gel or fancy hair products. Dirtiness is a luxury, I tell you.

"Ha! Don't be ridiculous," you say. Well, gentlemen, I must admit that you are wrong. For how can one go about squandering precious time gawking at oneself in the mirror, making sure that no strand of hair is out of place or there are no wrinkles in one's pants? Is it merely enough to look presentable and live a disheveled existence? Take, for instance, the case of the respectable lawyer who makes a six-figure salary and lives in a penthouse apartment. Every Monday morning, he goes to work in his spacious, corner office and has five paralegals working under him. His schedule is booked with appointments with important clients and endless hours of work. He eats, sleeps, and practically lives in his office. When he finally comes home to his apartment, the only thing that greets him is loneliness and more urgent phone calls. He spends all his free time drinking to forget his solitude and to drown his hatred of his job. Contrast his life with that of the hobo sleeping on the park bench, covered in old newspapers. He does whatever he wants, which is nothing. He sleeps for half of the day and spends the other half begging for enough change to buy himself a chicken sandwich from McDonalds. Of course, he is unbearably malodorous and filthy. Though he possesses neither the respect nor financial resources of the lawyer, however, this venerable hobo is liberated from all societal obligations or material bonds. But enough, gentlemen, I did not mean to go into all of this. I only mean to assure you, in as much as I can be assured myself, that untidiness is godliness.

Well, perhaps you would now like to know why I am so rank. I'll be glad to explain. One day, as I was seated on the bus to work, an extremely obese man decided to sit beside me. It was a summer at the time, mind you, so everyone was hot and sweaty. I was feeling particularly uncomfortable myself but this huge cupcake of a man made things even worse. He was wearing a loose jersey and I cowered as the streams of sweat rolled down his flabby arms and dripped onto my leather briefcase. This man reminded me of a hippopotamus who had just emerged from a muddy river - he was bathed in a pool of his own perspiration. "Wait," you say, "what does this have to do with anything?" Well, gentlemen, if you would stop interrupting me, you'd find out soon enough. As I was saying, despite his most disagreeable appearance, this rotund man gave off such an intoxicating scent as you would not believe. It rose from his body and diffused throughout the entire bus. And as others held their noses or passed out in horror, I could not help but inhale the glorious stench of the man. I knew then what my true calling was.

"Why, you must be mad!" you exclaim. Calm yourselves, gentlemen, for I am not mad. Indeed, what constitutes mad anyways? Is madness an illness of the mind? Or is it just an illusion used by the insane to convince themselves that it is really others who are mad, and not they themselves? The world is full of mad men. Who is to say that one man is any madder than the next madman? But enough, we are getting off topic again. See how easily my mind digresses? Gentlemen, I offer you my humblest apologies. But wait! Why should I apologize? It is you who interrupted me. You should apologize! Stop! We are losing precious hours. I shall continue with my narrative. The point of my story is that . . you see . . . there is no point. I lied. There is no fat man. There never was. No, I swear to you, the fat man doesn't exist. Well, he does exist. In my mind, that is. The truth is, I have no particular excuse for my lack of good hygiene. Don't be alarmed, gentlemen, for there is a perfectly good explanation for this. There is always an explanation for everything. Laziness - laziness is what keeps me foul and stinking. I swear to you, gentlemen, that being overly lazy is a sickness, a real, thorough sickness. Few maladies are worse. While the fat man can lose his fat by not eating and the stupid man can overcome his stupidity by reading, there is no cure for laziness. Laziness is an inherent trait; it lies within all out us. It is man's ultimate downfall. Oh, you object? I don't mean to alarm you, gentlemen, but even you carry the plague of laziness! "But I work all the time!" you proclaim. Alas, therein lies the problem. You are not working because your work satisfies you. What an absurd idea. You are working because you are in denial of your laziness. Go head; work harder. The men that history remembers, those were the great and mighty men who did not succumb to laziness. I, however, am not a great man. I am no one. Oh, how I wished I could muster enough strength and resolve to drag my filthy body to the bathtub and turn on the water. Oh, how my scalp itches. But woe is me, for I can do nothing about it.

By now you are shaking your heads and frowning at me. I know you are, and I shake my head and frown at myself. Do not pity me, gentlemen, for I do not deserve your pity. How can a man like me have any respect for himself? How could I become such a slacker? And that, believe it or not, is not even the worst part. The worst part of this whole thing is that I am not ashamed. In fact, I revel in my laziness. It is a way of life for me. And why not? The world has its share of industrious men. They're the ones who work for the advancement of some noble cause or another. But the world also needs us lazy people too, for where would civilization be without the contributions of idlers? We bring balance to society. Think about it, gentlemen; it is common sense. If everyone were to work hard, there wouldn't be enough jobs to go around. Everyone would be in competition and the entire world would be thrown into utter chaos. "Preposterous!" you say. Well, it is most certainly not. Consider this: is a leader a leader if he has no followers? Of course not. How can one lead when there is nothing to lead? This brings me to my next point. Is a hardworking man hardworking if there are no lazy men to compare him with? Why, my dear gentlemen, there would be no hardworking men in society if it weren't for me!

But what am I saying? What kind of a man takes pride in his sloth? Well, I can't decide. Instead, I ask you, gentlemen, which is better: resigned idleness or unrelenting perseverance? Well, which is better? Aha! So you see, the answer is not as obvious as it seems. But enough; my mind aches. The foul green air and ungodly stench of this closet is suffocating. I must do something about this at once! But what will I do?