My husband started to smell really bad—and I don’t just mean a little body odor. I mean reek, like something crawled into his pants and died. It was awful. At first, I thought maybe it was his gym clothes, or that he wasn’t showering well. But after a week or so, the stench just got worse.
I gently brought it up a few times, and he was embarrassed, but said he hadn’t noticed anything strange. I wasn’t trying to be mean—I was genuinely concerned. Something was clearly wrong.
Eventually, I made an appointment for him with a urologist. I thought, maybe it’s an infection or something. I offered to go with him for support, and he agreed.
We get to the clinic, and after a short wait, the nurse calls him in. He heads into the doctor’s office, and I stay behind in the waiting room. About five minutes later, the doctor walks out—his face red and barely able to contain laughter.
He says to me, “You might want to come in and see for yourself.”
Confused and a little alarmed, I follow him into the room. My husband is sitting on the exam table, looking absolutely mortified.
“Honey…” he says. “I don’t know how to explain this. But I think I found the problem…”
The doctor hands him a small plastic bag, and my husband holds it up.
Inside?
A balled-up, moldy piece of bologna.
Turns out, he had made a sandwich a few days ago, didn’t want to eat it, and—apparently—shoved the slice of meat in the front pocket of his underwear for some unknown reason. And then he forgot it was there.
It had been marinating in body heat for days, creating a biological weapon-grade stench. That’s what we’d been smelling all week.
I was in shock, torn between dying of laughter and calling a divorce lawyer.
He’s fine now—just deeply ashamed. We still haven’t let him live it down.
⸻
Moral of the Story?
If something smells off, it might not be a health crisis.
Sometimes, it’s just rotting lunch meat in your underwear.
