It seems like I've told the story before, somewhere, so I'll try to keep it short: I'd heard a lot about Clubman at the time, and I happened to be in a CVS when I came across a bottle. Took a chance and brought it home, ran to the bathroom to see what all the fuss was about, gave it a sniff, and was not impressed. Jason's not to far off in his comparison to paint thinner. Convinced I was smelling it wrong, I gave the bottle some slight squeezes and huge whiffs to better gauge the extent of my mistake.
In my defense, those small squeezes were
not enough to shoot a jet of the stuff in my face. They
were, however, enough to jiggle the bottle, slosh the liquid up the sides so it hit the top, and
then shoot a jet of it in my face--into my right nostril to be precise. As I was inhaling. It caught me so unaware that it went all the way back and through and was literally trickling down the back of my throat. Instant fire. I don't care how bad your life is, you don't truly understand the concept of suffering until you've experienced a Clubman nasal enema.
Unfortunately, the splash-back from my right nostril simultaneously sent a drop or two into my left eye, and I couldn't decide which was more important: the ability to ever breath again or to see. At the time, I could do neither. If there is a hell, I have a pretty good idea what it's like.
Probably the worst part of the ordeal is my wife was in the bedroom when the screaming started, and naturally asked what was wrong. How do you explain something like this, but still stay married? I told her I was doing one-arm push-ups and dislocated my shoulder. Yes, I had to walk around in a sling all that week, but it kept the family together.
Miraculously, I tried the Clubman the next day and, in spite of the PTSD, thoroughly enjoyed it once it finally dried down. It's just... some things should stay on the outside, that's all.
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