Among the Marsupial Sex in the City Fans

A kangaroo attacked a jogger in Melbourne, Australia, and park rangers told her that the scent she was wearing, Sarah Jessica Parker’s “Stash,” probably “piqued” the animal.

New York Post

I don’t ask for much out of life, and as a kangaroo, I don’t expect much. We’re anthropomorphized to a fare thee well, used as models for cuddly pillows and stuffed toys–never made it as big as Geoffrey the Giraffe, Toys “R” Us spokes-animal, but that’s fine. When the private equity firm put that retail chain on the auction block, he was the first to go.  The nail that sticks up is the one that gets hammered.

No, all I ask is to be left alone out here in the outback, which is less out and less back every year. It’s the creeping crud of civilization advancing on us that gets my goat. The fish ‘n chips wrappers, the din of Australian football games on the telly, the stupid “whatta ya got in yer pocket, mate?” jokes.

All I ask is a little piece and quiet at night beneath the Southern Hemisphere sky at night, so I can kick back with a can of Foster’s lager and watch re-runs of Sex in the City, which is only 25% annoying, unlike the other irritations of modern life that bother me.

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You’ve got three gorgeous women–and Sarah Jessica Parker. Why does she have to spoil every episode? I suppose I should thank my lucky stars she isn’t running for public office like Cynthia Nixon did. In retrospect, New York would probably be better off if she’d won. At least she wouldn’t have stuffed old people with COVID into nursing homes like Cuomo did. I hope.

My favorite was always Kristin Davis–The Girl Next Door you wanted to live next door to. Most bucks–that’s a male kangaroo–go for Kim Cattrall, and she’s great, don’t get me wrong. She’s #2 on my list of Fabulous TV Actresses I’d Like to Be Petted By, behind Davis but ahead of Nixon. Guys go for blondes, I don’t know what it is.

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But Parker–I have to avert my eyes when she’s on screen. I know, I know, she played the lead role in Annie and was a child star, but so was Mickey Rooney. You don’t see me humping a Scribbly Gum tree over him, do you?

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Maybe the producers added her for comic relief, I don’t know. All I know is, just the thought of her makes me want to punch somebody.

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*sniff* What’s that I smell? God I wish people wouldn’t wear after shave and perfume into the outback. Isn’t the pure, natural air better than any department store fragrance? Can’t quite put my finger on what it is. Is it Inspire, by Christina Aguilera? Nope. Is it Heat Kissed by Beyonce? Don’t think so. Maybe Lollipop Bling by Mariah Carey? No. Hilary Duff, Debbie Gibson, Sean “Puffy” Combs. Nope, nope, nope.

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Wait . . . a . . . minute. Is that . . . Could it be . . . It is! It’s Stash! Why the nerve . . . who dares to wear the signature scent of my least favorite actress, producer and designer into my territory?

It’s her–that jogger over there!

I like to think I can control my temper, and not give in to a fit of pique, but this is different.

I’m going to haul her in to kangaroo court.

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