Chicago Tribune, September 30, 1920
. If you lived or worked Back o' the Yards, it helped to maintain a sense of humor about the prevailing scent of humus. Mr. Office Manager here is pitching the straight capitalist party line on the matter.
This poor thing is exhibiting the classic symptoms of Stockyard Syndrome, whereby olfactory captives exhibit feelings of loyalty to the stench that imprisons them. In this tragic case, there are signs that the subject's very sexuality has been grotesquely distorted.
"Furthermore, deep-dish pizza is disgusting. How can you even call that pizza when it's obviously some kinda hideous casserole? And don't even get me started on Taste of Chicago. . ."
She's trying hard to get with the loyalty program but cannot contain her true feelings. "It is the only smell I know" is too poignant for words. Still, it could have been worse: at least she wasn't inhaling patchouli all her days.
Chicagoans never needed a Sigmund Freud to spell out the whole feces = money equation, but this dude is also demonstrating some telltale ambivalence. That last sentence (which should read "That is, except one kind, of course") is meant as Prohibition-related naughtiness: Getting a cooperative quack to write you a prescription for alcohol was one of the easiest and safest end runs around the Dry Law. This poor bastard was plainly fortifying himself against the pervasive cloacal fog with a massive daily intake of grain spirits.