A Journey through the Smells of Bobb

A Journey through the Smells of Bobb


Set the scene: you’re talking to someone you met in your discussion section, and they seem pretty cool! You could see the two of you being good friends; maybe you should hang outside of class. Then, they tell you something, and, well—you have to clarify:

“Oh, you live north campus?” You try to stay calm. Maybe he lives in Slivka, or Ayers…you think, even Elder wouldn’t be the worst ans—

“Yeah, I live in Bobb!” they respond, casually cruel. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, your room key in between your middle and index fingers, ready to stab yourself in the gut. That way, at least you could go to a sanitary place with high key lighting—the hospital.

But don’t worry, little one, I’m here to help prepare you for a journey of a lifetime, or at least let you know what to expect. Here it is: a completely accurate, floor-by-floor guide to the smells of Bobb-McCulloch Residence Hall.


  • The Cockpit. This one doesn’t even need a new nickname. It smells exactly how you’d expect it to: like the armpit of a Cyclops with over-active sweat glands decided to cause the next major tropical storm. What will we name this hurricane of B.O.? Oh, I don’t know, maybe after a member of half the football team that lives here.
  • The Virgin Vault. Don’t worry—this area’s pure. Pure BUTTHOLE. I’m pretty sure the farts of every resident travel down their respective air ducts and converge here to talk about last week’s episode of Serial. Or it’s just the girl on the end of the hall who decided to go vegan. Equally likely.

SECOND FLOOR: Skunk Defecation Hedge Maze. You’ve made it this far. Perhaps you’ve smelled the worst. Ahhhh, what’s that familiar smell? you think. Could it be? Your sacred dank? Dat gud gud? The sweet ganj? You try to track it down. After twenty minutes of frantic sniffing, you realize you’ve been retracing your steps the whole time. Dizzied, you fall to the ground. Above you, the door to room #237 creeks open, a key in the lock. Something is pulling you in, but you’re paralyzed. Two girls in matching dresses appear down the hall, covered in red liquid. Is it Halloween? You can’t remember. Suddenly the smell of your favorite herb curdles to something more sour. The sourness grows, as if 100 aggressive liberal skunks were just told Bernie is “un-electable.” This was a trap. Hop on your Big Wheel tricycle and get out while you can.

THIRD FLOOR: Gladerunner. Mmmm, what’s that? Apple Cinnamon? It smells just like Grandma’s house! You keep walking. How sweet! Someone installed a plug-in air freshener. As you turn the corner, the smell morphs. Now, your nostrils fill with lavender and vanilla…a lovely scent, but…mixed with apple cinnamon? It’s like the pie-tin was lined with dryer sheets. You start to choke. You stumble toward the stairwell. You spot another Glade plugged into the wall, but it’s too late, you’re too close—you’re engulfed in Glade’s 2015 Tropical Collection: Island Delight™. What does that even mean?? Are these all just a bunch of toxic chemicals? Yes! If the members of the third floor had simply agreed on one scent-aesthetic for the halls, life would be a Hawaiian Breeze™! But this isn’t a place of logic and order. This is Bobb.

Poop in Bobb stairwell (2016)

FOURTH FLOOR: Noses Wide Cut. You throw up in the stairwell and come down from your chemical high. Finally, the fourth floor. You’ve come this far. You open the door, and you’re confused. It doesn’t smell bad. Actually, it doesn’t smell like anything. You sniff harder, and you’re struck by the sheer absence of any smell. A weak trumpet starts playing “For (He’s/She’s/They’re) a Jolly Good Fellow” down the hall. You turn the corner, and a group of frail students dressed in dirty rags and ripped up 50’s clothing huddles around a garbage fire. “Congrats,” they whisper. “Welcome home.” A girl extends her hand, presenting a rusty pocketknife. “It’s time.” You look closer and realize none of them have noses. Terrified, you run to the stairs and sprint all the way down. Finally, you’re free.

JUST KIDDING. You went down the wrong stairs, the ones that you need a Bobb key to get out of. It’s fine. But how did you get up to the fourth floor in the first place? There’s no working elevator in Bobb. Is this some odorous purgatory? Was this all a nightmare? Surely your mind couldn’t make up something this terrible. You fold into a fetal position, mouth-breathing. Someone will come rescue you, someday. until then, your only company is that piece of human poop.

Clarification: We sent someone down to study Bobb’s basement, but they never came back up. We’ve reached out to the Fart Dementor who lives there, but it’s safe to assume he’s busy reaping our reporter’s soul.

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