Poison Dior 1985 Eau de Toilette

*Preface: This text may be perceived as politically incorrect by sensitive readers. This is a stylistic device of satire and is not intended to hurt feelings. If you feel threatened: just click away!*

“Seriously, guys. I don’t want to offend you. But - are you for real? So, do you stand by what you’re doing? Is this all you have to offer? I mean, let’s be honest: You’re using stuff that has names like ‘Not A Perfume,’ and you know what? That’s actually true! Because half of you don’t smell at all. And the other half, well, they’re as proud as can be because they can only smell something for a quarter of an hour; it doesn’t last longer. You spray this imposition on yourselves in… um, wait a second:… homeopathic doses, and that’s supposed to be elegant. But hey, I always say: what good is all this understatement if no one notices?
And then your weird political correctness: You’re as happy as kids because you can artificially create oud, while the original already smells like my old man’s underwear. And since it’s just not nice, you quickly declare it art and discuss it here as if it were a Picasso. Man, oh man.
The strongest thing you have in stock is your stupid Baccarat Rouge, sorry, I can’t remember the numbers behind it. There’s a comment about it coming out three times a week. You’re really into it, huh? You say it has punch. Really? It has punch?
Let me tell you something: I HAVE punch. If a three-ingredient fragrance knocks you off your feet, then you better buckle up. And I’ll tell you something else: if you plan to tear me apart now, as you like to do here: just don’t. Seriously: I don’t want to hear anything about ‘spice box’ or ‘sweet little plum dipped in honey.’ I mean - Hello? Are you serious? Have you heard how that sounds? I mean, sure, it’s true, I’m a damn sweet… but hey! You don’t say that out loud if you have any decency. And to the know-it-alls who suspect tuberose here: What the hell should I smell like then? I smell damn well like tuberose because it’s the strongest flower scent you can get. Clear enough? While I’m at it, let me say a little about my base: It’s as broad as a horse’s behind. And what brings tears to your eyes is called sandalwood. From real sandalwood trees or whatever they’re called, definitely not like the synthetic crap you put on yourselves. As for where my amber comes from, I’d rather not say - otherwise, you’ll have nightmares.
So, that’s how it is with me. But as I said: I don’t like it when you mess with me. I am what I am, namely a total work of art. Everything you need to know about me is: I make sure people notice you in the club. I bet: From the bouncer to the guys in the back room: They’ll all know you’re there. I’ll party with you all night long; I’m there until the bitter end. And when you’re hanging over the toilet bowl the next afternoon, guess what: Yes, baby - I’m still there.
Girlz or Boyz? That’s another stupid question. Where I come from, it looks like this: Jon Bon Jovi and Tina Turner shared the wardrobe. They had the same hairdresser anyway. You wear a rosary around your neck, and the Russian cross is tattooed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade, the blush is also used as eyeshadow, and if the mini goes more than four centimeters above the butt, you’re just a square. The Rocky Horror Picture Show is not a cult. It’s daily routine. Dude, is that sexy? Oh yes. And if you can’t handle that, then buy yourself a knitting kit and sign up for a support group.
It’s just like this: I’m damn strong stuff. But nothing better than me has come under your nose yet. And it won’t, I’ll bet on it. That people have laid hands on me, ‘slimmed down,’ some jokers call it: Well, that’s an outrage. Only the original is the original, and hey, don’t say you don’t dare to handle it. Meet me, get to know me while you still can. And when you can’t anymore: we’ll meet in the Hall of Fame of all perfumes. Because I have a permanent seat there.
End of announcement.

P.S.: Many thanks to Sebà, who reminded me of this treasure, and to TinkiB, who sold me her vintage Poison. Since then, I can’t get out of the flashbacks.
And thanks to the brave ones for reading!