I don’t even have a sense of SMELL and I can tell he’s home. That’s our Boris, just casually trudging around, waiting for you to stumble upon him. Considerate that he helps you find him. It starts subtly. Like a whisper you can't quite decipher. A suggestion.
You see, you smell Boris from a mile away because, well, he’s just blatant about it. No subtlety, no discretion—just a glorious waft of garlic so relentless, it practically smacks you in the face. This is our boy’s way of saying “hello.”
It begins so delicately—just a gentle waft, a little tease in the air. You could easily get fooled into thinking someone’s cooking pasta, making a nice sauce or roasting vegetables. Nope. It’s Boris, throwing all decorum out the window.
That aroma doesn’t fade like a normal smell. No, it intensifies. It thickens. It’s got a lot of commitment. And by the time you realise, it’s too late. We don’t need fancy satellites or GPS—oh no— we can track this idiot with the waft of garlic he emanates.
And where is Boris? Why, in a perfectly sane place—perched somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t be usually—gnawing through garlic bulbs like it’s an ancient apple he just discovered in a dungeon. No hesitation, no remorse—he’s just there, dedicated, crunchy, and clearly living his best life.
He doesn’t cook garlic. Doesn’t peel it. Doesn’t share. Nope, it’s just him, minding his own business, devouring that garlic like anyone else would enjoy bacon.
It’s a lifestyle, really. Some might call it a problem. Boris? He calls it “breakfast.” Because, of course, a garlic muncher’s morning routine is the pinnacle of normalcy.
“There’s no such thing as a little garlic” doesn’t even come close to describing the aroma. Maybe he’s just salty and spiteful. Boris just made a decision one day and decided to stick with it forever. No regrets, no turning back. Try to confiscate it and he will THROW DOWN to protect his stash.
Once you’ve truly experienced Boris—really noticed him—you start picking up on the signs faster: the air shifts, the scent hits you sooner, and you develop the horrifying “garlic radar.” Super helpful, really.
And guess what? Boris is already halfway through his third bulb.