The skunk was a punk, a walking, talking, graffiti writing bastard who frequents hunting/fishing stores. Now you can all relax and know it wasn’t a real critter, but a purchased, liquid stink. So relax, unless the punk is you. Then you cannot relax.
Just ask my friend S who thought it would be funny to put my car up for sale in the paper for $100. Not so brilliant, Homer. Next thing he knew, his cell phone was ringing off the hook, receiving many, many, many forwarded calls interested in the car for sale for $100.