“Yip, nothin’ like the good, ol’ smell o’ cow manure to wake ya up in the mornin’!”

I continued to rake up the cow plops from the straw and load them in the wheelbarrow as my nose repeatedly tried to make my stomach heave itself out my mouth.

After that torturous chore was finished, we moved on to the next one: eating Aunt Linda’s cooking.

Never believe anyone when they say all Southern women can cook.

“Mmmm-mm! I can smell my Linda’s cookin’ all the way out here!” commented my uncle, while I tried to make my nostrils permanently close themselves.

After chugging down the burned bacon and grits with a full glass of milk, I followed my uncle to the sewer, cursing myself for forgetting my nose plugs.

“Cheer up, chap! The smell ain’t that bad! Reminds me o’ my grandpa, Gary!”

I thanked God I hadn’t acquired the genetic trait of smelling like sewage.

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As I opened my cab door, a smell wafted in that made me sure that this was heaven.

I quickly payed the driver, and stepped into my smoggy wonderland.