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Wednesday, May 16, 2012


You all know what a Brazilian is, right? You know how you go about getting one of these…sphinx pussies, right? Certainly there is more than one way to skin a cat…ooh, bad pun, sorry. The most common are self-waxing, salon waxing, shaving and electrolysis.

Personally, I can’t see letting my hooha out in public, paying money to let some stranger play Karate Kid with a wax on wax off treatment, while causing me quite a bit of pain, and never mind the kind of positions you’d have to get into for them to get every single hair.

But really, that shit hurts, and if you say it doesn’t you’re just a sadist. And that is why self-waxing is also out for me. I am not into pain of any kind, especially the self-inflicted stuff.

And really, who wants to even think about electro-cunt, I mean electrolysis?!

I shave. It doesn’t hurt… as long as I haven’t overdone the coffee. (Please don’t get a visual, especially by the time you reach the end of this post.)

There is a great debate about the bald beaver. Some say it is too “child-like” making the person who enjoys dabbling in it a pedophile. I say that’s bullshit. To me just feels better, cleaner and more sensitive. And I dabble in my hot pocket plenty. Wait, what?!

Some like to have a landing strip or a design so it still has a little something going on. But, ladies, a vadge has always got something going on. It really doesn’t matter if it has hair or not. It doesn’t matter if you have designs cut into it like Bobby Brown’s hair in the 80s, a V or heart-shape, etc. as long as you don’t have a hip-to-hip fro, it’s all good.

Some even think you can be too old to trade the “carpet” in for linoleum. Funny thing about that is nature makes enough fall out that you become baldish by default eventually anyhow. For some, that is even before gray pubes start popping.

So whether you are for or against clean-shaven cooches, please note, I have a point, I just haven’t reached it yet.

Brazilian, we know the meaning of the word. So why when we see a product called, “Nair Brazilian Spa Clay” wouldn’t we think it is made to trim the trim in an easier, pain-free at home setting? That is what we would and should think, right?!

Well, my friends, I am here, barely living proof, to tell you, that is not what the product is for, unless you want a flaming fish taco. One might think to actually read the instructions and warnings on the label, even if they are in the finest of fine print. And then there’s me.

Get your glasses on and read the label before putting this…napalm on your meat curtains or your puckered poo hole. Holy mother of fuck!

I wonder if this is what “the clap” feels like. It certainly has a fiery sting down stairs. (Singing Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire in my head right now.)

Besides the fact that now due to an allergic reaction, it looks like I need to invest in Proactiv panties. Do they make those for the pimply assed? It didn’t even take all the hair off! I am pretty sure my snatcharoo isn’t made of steel wool, yet for whatever reason, I look like I’ve got a case of chemo crotch. Patches of hair clung to my cave of wonders, as well as to the “convenient sponge.”

I won’t even go into the thoughts I have about a reusable snatch sponge because you all know what kind of bacteria a dish sponge can hold.

Honestly my butt cheeks felt like I’d drank a bottle of tequila while eating a platter of spicy Mexican food the night before. (We all have a little butt fuzz, right? If you don’t please lie to me.)

Those Mexican folks must have colons of steel. I mean, ay, caramba! My asshole sure felt like a god damn piñata that had just been cracked open. And I had to see, but without a mirror handy, I had to improvise. While still naked and bowlegged, I squatted as low as I could go. I bent over, craned my neck far as I could, because I was certain flames - no, no, white hot flames should be flying out of that general area.

But due to my lack of flexibility, I was unable to see what clearly must look like it had been beaten with a stick. In a way, I was hoping candy was going to fall out of my piñata poop chute.

Where was I? If you want to have a chemo crotch and a burning bung, go ahead use that shit. But I won’t make that same mistake twice. It works just fine on the tuff muff part, but don’t let it touch those tender lips or go anywhere near the crack. So true about crack killing, incidentally.

Now if you’ll please excuse me, I think I need to go ice my asshole.

Friday, May 11, 2012

Mother's Day date with Lane 1

Crazy moments of cuteness just don’t come along often enough when it comes to Lane 1. He’ll be 20 in a month. God, where does time go? He isn’t around very often, but when he is that boy just melts his ol’ ma’s heart.

Yesterday he took me on an early Mother’s Day date. It was a great day. Weather was perfect and all conditions were right due to recent rainfall.

We went for a hike that went on for miles and miles, for hours and hours. We went up and down hill, over the river and through the woods - literally.

Over the rough terrain, he kept reaching out for my hand to help me or asked if I was okay. I remember doing the same to him when he was a little guy. Man, how times change…

Even on our way out the door he reminded me to wear shoes I don’t care about since they’d probably get muddy.

The whole time in the car there and while hiking he told me stories about things he and his buddies have done and told me about places they’ve been. He even asked if I minded his choice of music in the car. He’s growing up so fast.

We climbed and talked, did I mention he even turned his cell phone off and stuck it in his pocket? He actually wanted to talk to his mom. We joked around, making fun of each other. We laughed and walked into the mud, onto the rocks… and then as the day was coming to a close, one of us fell waist deep into the water.

The funny thing about making fun of your mother is karma is always on her side. He’s learning the hard way. As we went around a designated trail to get a better view of a waterfall, I believe my son said something like, “Come this way.”

I protested saying I felt nervous and didn’t want to.

“Come on, Ma. It’s not that hard and the water isn’t even deep. There is nothing to be nervous about.” I didn’t budge and he said, “You’re so old!”

No sooner did those words pass his lips, while he was showing me how “easy” it was, and he was swept away by the current. He fell in about cell phone deep, I mean waist deep.

It took every ounce of me to not laugh. I wanted to take a picture almost as bad as I wanted to save him from drowning, but I was fighting my laughter too much for either. Thankfully he recovered his footing quickly and came up… cussing a blue streak, until he looked at my face and we both started laughing.

He kinda whined most of the way back about being cold, ruining his phone, complaining his thighs were chaffing and his balls were becoming prune-like.

I was amused. I think secretly he was too.

Thank you so much my young man for making me so proud and treating me to a great day. I love you, bud.