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I love Oud. This is not Oud. This is an abomination. Picture if you will some middle aged woman that you are fond of, now picture her in the backyard at twilight trying to plant rosebushes. She's kind of a sad woman, too much time on her hands, kids have grown up and moved away. Her husband is there but not there if you know what I mean. She isn't good at gardening and she has pricked her fingers badly . . . thus the smell of roses and a plethora of bandaids. Bandaids on her fingers, bandaids on her knees, maybe she's a little crazy because she has covered herself in bandaids. Now add to the bizarre fragrance scene, her neighbors, Billybob and his six teenage sons. The like to work on cars, lots of cars, while they're drunk stale booze. Roses, Bandaids, and the acrid stench of the cars they inadvertently set on fire. Midnight Oud = Roses in Burning Rubber. An hour later (when this mess finally dries down) Billybob shows up at her door smelling of weak patchouli, and bearing an apology, and a bag of weed, and a forty-year old bottle of Annie Greensprings (look it up) and a lascivious twinkle in his eye.