“Put me in your book and I’ll show you something that will goosin’ blow your mind”, he declared.
“Sure, why not,” I replied tentatively. He had an image of himself tattooed across his prodigious nose.
With a quick nod and an exaggerated wink he leaned in toward my beak and inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring intensely. “Yesterday you ate a Souseburger sandwich, extra pickles, hold the bunions, and you accidentally swallowed the toothpick. Boiled shmurve’s crote with red crud and a glazed donut with rainbow sprinkles. Filet of purple-faced buns-haver with nut butter cream sauce and a side of whistling jollops. Three beers, one of which was fake, and a whole stick of butter. Also six medium-sized cuddle fruits and the stems of five speckled rories. Oh, and a bug. I’m not sure what kind, but it used to feed on bleak-blossom nectar. This morning you had a rancid waffle that made you throw up in your mouth a little bit so you washed it down with another mug of suds, Bluefoam Brew imported from Goss, if I’m not mistaken.”
“That’s amazing!” I whispered. “How did you know all that?”
“Smellementary, my boy. Smell-ementary…” He ate my last slog nugget, sniffed his own armpit, and promptly burst into green flame for some reason. When the smoke cleared he was gone.
From The Whole Hole Volume 01: Keister Island
Smellcasters aren’t the only sage-flavored dudes to hang around the Garden (of Smellemental Glee). Weisenheimers, philosophers, and other deep-thinking thunks really dig the vibe of the place. They conduct research, ponder existence, groove with the smellements, and participate in various other scholarly pursuits. Some are into the solitude and tranquility offered by the Garden’s private workshops. Others are drawn by the same libraries and like-minded experts that attract the smellcasters. Whatever the reasons, the Garden is pretty much infested with smarty pants (smarty pantses?).