Were it not for the incinerating fires of Melkor's malice and hatred which clothed the mightly Gothmog in his evil glory, the gaseous emissions of that Lord of Balrogs were they to escape the flames mayhap could rival the stench of which I speak. Were the belchings of darkness and death within Torech Ungol gathered together and put into a phial concentrate, they might have attained unto the vileness I have experienced. Nay the heady vapours of the Dead Marshes in comparison are like unto the gardens of Fimbrethil, or the perfumes of the blossoms of Nimloth. I speak of a malodorous air beyond comprehension; a noisome rottenness the likes of which could not have come from mere mortal man. Perhaps he was not of this world. Perhaps he was... no; the horror of this memory haunts me and I will speak of it no longer. I must try to purge my mind of it lest it drive me to vomit in my mouth... again.
Seriously... the guy is in desperate need of a visit to the gastroenterologist.