“Can’t you smell that smell?”- Lynryd Skynryd; One of my first conscious encounters with armpits occurred when I was in the second grade. Bobby Thompson lifted his wing and exhaled a furious blast of air at a mutual playmate of ours. The kid dutifully rolled his eyes, spun in a circle, went limp as only 7-year-old boys can do and pretended to collapse right there on the playground asphalt. It took minutes to play-revive him.

(Photo Caption: Is President Obama going to tax armpits next? And if so, in the spirit of his dividing the nation, will the worse offenders be charged more than those that smell like a Yosemite meadow in Springtime?)

Now, some 40 years later, I read that humans actually can communicate from chemical signals released from armpits.

Here. Let me read to you a paragraph from the offending Associated Press article: “In a study using armpit secretions, scientists have found what they call the first proof that people can influence each other through airborne chemical signals they don’t even notice.”

At first, I thought, “Duh.”

Who hasn’t been unduly influenced by B.O.?

You’re standing in a train next to a fellow in a turban who’s wearing a polyester cowboy shirt that hasn’t been washed since Eisenhower was president. (And cripes. Would I trade Eisenhower’s small toe for the current pretender Barack the First.) The guy has so much body odor, your contact lenses keep sliding off and the people in the “Vacation In Lovely Bermuda” posters grab their noses and dive under the coral.

Dear Mr. Boston:

We’re not exactly sure if your last sentence starting with, “That guy,” is simply yet another syntax gaffe or a serious aspersion cast against the 34th president of the United States. While we appreciate rural humor as much as the next chap, we’d like to point out that Dwight David Eisenhower was a person of extreme and conscientious cleanliness who not only bathed more than Howard Hughes, but also kept two deodorant lozenges lodged under his armpits 24 hours a day. That’s why he always short-armed his salute.

Very truly yours,

Mrs. Poo Tinky, Curator

The Eisenhower Presidential Library

Dear Mr. Boston:

Hey! Thanks for the idea! We’re now going to tax armpits. My long-suffering wife needs another pair of $500 tennies for her next photo op at a soup kitchen. Guess I’ll have to appoint another czar and maybe fund a new green solar armpit counting company.

Best,

Barry Obama

P.S. Beer? You buy?

Be that as it may, I’ve known many people who can communicate through their armpits. A friend of mine (John Hobbs, to protect his identity) in high school could frap out “The Star Spangled Banner” by cupping his hand under his left arm and pumping air into and out of Nature’s Neglected Cavity.

It went a little something like this: “Brr-buh-brr BRRR-BRRR-BRRRRRR, Brr-buh-brr-brr-brr. BUH-BUH Brrrrrr, buh-puh-brrr, buh-puh-brrr-brrrr-brrrrr-brrrr…”

Evidently, there are other ways to communicate via your armpits.

Government researchers — and you have to ask yourself: who do you have to kill to get a $378,000-a-year job like this? — “… wiped underarm secretions from one group of women under the noses of other women.” The findings: “It affected their cycles,” the scientists coughed, looking away with embarrassment as they were NOT talking about Harley Davidson’s new Sportster. It also proved that humans are influenced by pheromones — an invisible chemical signal that can influence creatures in all manner of behaviors, from signaling dominance to mating preference.

I can attest to that.

I dated this girl briefly in the ’60s. Actually, everybody dated everybody “briefly” in the ’60s. I met her in Santa Barbara and she must have been doing something right with her sub-shoulder glands as I found her narcotizingly attractive. Later — Horror of Guy Horrors — I discovered at that Pre-Moment Of Romantic Truth, said waitress/flower child didn’t shave her armpits. It looked like she had two midget Don Kings in a headlock.

This is my own insecurity talking, but I don’t care how strong, primeval and sexually endearing an armpit hormone can be grunted into the ether. I see thick tufts of armpit hair on a woman and I come down with Hysterical Blinking followed by an embarrassing case of the stutters.

What can I say?

The armpit giveth. And the armpit taketh away.

That last thought is even more profound if you say it aloud, like Sylvester the Cat.

John Boston has earned 119 major awards for writing stuff. Besides The Mighty West Ranch Beacon, his work appears in the prestigious thebostonreport.net just about every darn day. His commentaries represent his own opinions and not necessarily the views of any organization he may be affiliated with or those of the West Ranch Beacon. Read Boston’s daily blog, his Daily English Muffins, the Adventures of Job Hunter and more of John Boston’s award-winning commentary on thebostonreport.net