On the rare occasion that my eyes pass upon a male fashion ad, I observe a beautiful sweaty man. The idea is that women dig sweaty dudes. Maybe. But most likely, women dig dudes rubbed down with copious amounts of baby oil. Personally, I have not had the best luck wooing my woman through means of perspiration.

Last night I came home from a fun night out with the boys in my class. We visited a local establishment called "Power Play" where we raced go-karts, played video games and engaged in laser tag warfare. It was all very fun. And sweaty.

I sauntered into the house with my man musk rolling in full effect and greeted my wife with a hug and kiss. According to the magazine adverts, I expected her to throw herself at me in a moment of unbridled passion. Instead, I was greeted with an announcement that I was stinky.

Stupid magazines. In all honesty, I did stink. And it wasn't the good kind either. The sweat stench that comes from a hard day of work in the yard or superhuman exploits on the basketball court have a certain sweetness that underlies the stink. But not arcade sweat. It's stale. It's humid. It is a little extra spicy.

The only sweat that smells worse is theme park/water park sweat. The stench that can only be attained when the fruit of your pores spends all day mixing and dancing with the sweat of all the other people who have preceded your presence in the roller coaster seats you occupy throughout your visit. That sweet ecumenical tonic that is brewed when dirt, junk food sweat and the urine of small children who lost control of their bladders on the water slide ends up coating your skin with a thin film of sticky and stink.

Fair Dinkum