Fat butterheifer lyft driver literally made me start to blackout As soon as I saw her drive up, I knew I was fucked.  I had already waited over 10 minutes for a lyft, and knew I couldn't get another in time. I can do 20 minutes, right? YOU IS WRONG MOTHER FUCKER. As the backseat of this butterheifers converted tractor was covered in books and old Starbucks cups, I was forced to climb into the front seat.  Of the prius.   Oh laws. The smell hit me like a fucking freighter.   I've worked in a mortuary. I know the smell of decay and death well. Where most people might faint and run, with post mortem bodies, I am calmer than a Hindu fucking cow. This. This was different.  Maybe it freaked me out so much because the once human body that was now animating this oh so familiar smell was still somehow alive, or maybe it was the goddamn hamper sized basket of body sprays and air freshners at my feet that it was using to try* and mask the smell, but I immediately felt light headed.  It mooed incessantly about it's stupid life while driving, oblivious to the fact that I was as far against my passenger door as possible, hugging that fucker like a fatty with the last biscuit at breakfast. My body refused to let me take more than small sips of air at a time, holding my breath until forced to take another. At a stoplight, my vision suddenly started going dark around the edges. I managed to throw the door open, gulping the humid air of filthy downtown like it was the last milkshake in the hands of Wilfred Brimley.  Sweet, sweet release.  The heiffer protested as I struggled with my seatbelt, all but throwing myself from the vehicle. I gave the cow one last look through the window at her gaping maw of disbelief. I spent the next 10 minutes walking to my appointment writing a scathing review of the olfactory assulter.  Death drives a red prius.