As an American I can only speculate at how bad Europe usually smells in the summer.  But, come the beginning of the Summer Olympics, add another half a million people to a country the size of 3 square shaped states and the risk of olfactory assaults rises exponentially. 

Then, on top of that, toss in a few thousand athletes wearing nothing but tennis shoes, tank tops and nylon shorts and you’ve got a recipe for fungal disaster.

The place is going to smell. But what is one to expect from a country who’s national symbol is a cartoon skunk?

Opening ceremonies will wisely be held on a river so the concentration of stink emanating from the French population mixed with the rest of unhygienic European Union won’t kill birds mid air.  There is talk of slowly sinking every athlete-laden barge navigating La Senne so to at least force one bath on everyone before things get real funky.

There has been concerns raised about whether or not the Parisian patisseries can keep up with the demand for croissants and other Pillsbury dough products. Chinese prisons, sorry-factories are working overtime to supply Jerry Lewisville with four inch replicas of that huge elevator in the middle of their town. And while scattered shortages of tchotchke does seem a possibility, The French government has posted assurances online that not one store has  run out of deodorant or most toiletries. “Sacre Bleu!” said whoever is sitting on the revolving door of a seat as Prime Minister, “We Frenchies have been doing our part to conserve le no pew pew by not using it and brushing our teeth with brie since we signed the Treaty of Versailles!” He then raised his arms above his head, began shouting “Vive Le…” but stopped short when four visiting journalist from Tokyo succumbed to the overwhelming stench wafting from his mouth and sweat stained armpits.

Now, I’m not saying we Americans don’t have our share of sporting events that smell like the business end of flatulent dog that’s been eating nothing but Oscar Meyer wieners and chili at a fourth of July picnic. We do-it’s called Rodeo.  Large groups of sparkling clean people, freshly bathed in the sweet water of liberty, congregate to watch mighty men and women (who by the way could beat the crap out of any Euro) wrestle and ride cattle and horses. And the smell of the road biscuits dropping from the behinds of American raised and fed thoroughbred cows and horses still smells better than anything that ever came out of Belgium-and yes, that include Jean Claude van Damme.

As I think about the dangers that might appear during the Olympics-for one must consider security-I fear most for the poor people that will be seated at the end of each race’s finish line.  This is where the athletes always flap their arms and gesticulate their hands high above their heads.  I have been given top secret information that every European country’s flags have been doused with Old Spice so as the winner drapes the flag across their shoulders the repulsive aroma of sweat and cheese curds emanating from them will be suppressed and hopefully drift like a giant Air Wick over the pathetic loser who fell behind.  Look for record breaking times from American runners that will strain every muscle in their bodies to get upwind of and away from the perspiration puddle running next to them.

I have heard rumors that the Olympic torch is going to be replaced with a candle sponsored by Bath & Body Works; a wise decision sure to cut through the cloud of condensed stink floating above the venue and attract more female viewers.

I also have it on good authority that because of the expected heat during the games that misting stations will be set up around arenas and many cities.  Each mister has been set up to dispense Febreze in various delightful fragrances -much to the chagrin of many a European mother who won’t be able to identify their children by smell alone.