While on my way to a late Indian buffet lunch, I was stopped on the street by an incredibly scurvy-looking black dude who was like something out of a KKK propaganda flier brought to vivid, crusty, smelly life. He approached me and said "Say, my brutha! You use cologne? I gots all kindza cologne!!!" To emphasize his statement, he held up two tattered plastic shopping bags that were indeed filled with assorted bottles of manly scents. I politely declined while pondering whether there was anyone on the streets of tony Park Slope who would purchase toiletries from the resuscitated corpse of Whitman Mayo.