Thursday, February 28, 2008

RERUN: profoundly and intensely nsfw.

This is a rerun of an article I had published about a year ago. It is arguably the filthiest thing I've ever published on this blog.
Why am I rerunning it?
Because I can.

1. If reading about vaginas, lesbians or my husband's new job (which I never mention) is going to offend you, then you'll probably want to hit that 'next blog' button up there on the extreme upper right hand corner jiffy quick.

2. If you intend to read on, but then you get all offended because you just read about nasty lady parts then you'll probably want to ask me if I give a fuck.
I don't by the way.

Ok? You have been warned and you're lucky you got that. Really. Ask anyone who regularly visits here. They'll tell you.


Take care of your poontang, and your poontang will take care of you.

Now I don't mean to echo the sentiments of big Mama Thornton here, whose'If I can't sell it, I'm gonna sit on it because I aint givin' it away" are words many an enteprenurial dyke has taken to I do mean to impart some basic operating instructions to those of you who might be new to the game.

Girls, those of you who have strayed into the boys side of the sockhop have doubtlessly noted that their congratulatory juices smell like chestnut trees in blossom...that, and the last meal they had. Or, the cigarettes/cigars/chewing tobacco/bong last mouthed.

This goes for cooze too, my darlings.

If this surprises you, remember that Sappho noted the same thing centuries ago in her lyric "Just because it has a cute expression on it's face doesn't mean it won't tear off your arm and club you with it."

If you smoke, whatever you smoke, be assured that it will end up making your cooter taste as though you store it in the ashtray of a cab. Just because you yourself detect no smell does not mean that you are the magic exception to the rule.

For shame. Your sweetiepie should be nicely flavored of freshly showeredness, or at least Wet Wipedness. It should not smell or taste like whats' in that coffee can your Uncle keeps in his truck*. (Unless your partner also smokes/chews/tokes. In that case bust out the Mrs. Butterworths, try not to scare the horses, and skip down to 'Part Deaux: Hair'.)

Alcohol is fun and can lead to heavy petting, true, but it does tend to make your snatch smell like you douche with Muscatel.

Onions are to be avoided before a night spent taking turns on the lube rack-and I mean avoid them like you'd avoid Gary Glitters' application for a daycare license. Anything from the allium family, in fact...garlic, ramps, offramps, Dale Evans, her horse, chives, leeks, all that oniony type stuff. Don't. Eat. The. Onion.

And while I'm on the subject of aromas...
Sex, my darlings, jostles the lower torso.
This produces gas.
Farting cannot be avoided.
EXCESSIVE farting can.
Avoid farty foods. Simple.
So simple a caveman could do it.
(By the way, Beano really does work. It is a particular boon to vegetarian carpet munchers everywhere. God bless you, inventor of Beano. Your place in heaven is assured. )

Part Deaux: Hair
If you're picking pinecones out of it after you jog, for the love of God trim your pubic hair back. Likewise if people down at the pool keep calling you 'Buckwheat' and you aren't a little black kid, it's time to dig out the hand mirror and the scissors. Otherwise it's all part of the natural landscape.

Face facts. You have a vagina. You cooze. When you get horny you cooze even more. In fact you cooze to a greater or lesser degree all the time; it's our automatic self-cleaning feature; like a Jenn-aire only without that barbecue deal on top with the really loud fan.

This means that you will and do develop dreadlocks, which is why you should always carry one of those travel-sized packets of Wet Wipes. Lifesaver? Oh. My. God. They fit right in the breast pocket of your Carharts with room to spare for the keys to your backhoe. No shit; it can save your entire evening when those unexpected 'away dates' occur. Otherwise, at least have a quick spritz under the bathroom faucet. Be extra stealthy and pat dry with the cuff of your Levi's (do not attempt if you're drunk or you'll end up in the tub. Never mind how I know that.) If no other choice presents itself use her mom's bathrobe. It's right there, see? Hanging behind the bathroom door? Be considerate; use the hem, not the sleeve.

Vigorous sweat-producing activity, like dancing, or skinning elk, will also leave your cooter with an unfortunate resemblance to a Jeri-Curl marinated Michael Jackson back in his 'Thriller' heyday. This is not a face you want to see in any situation but particularly NOT when you haul down some hot chick's drawers. (In fact you probably don't want to see any faces unless you invited company. Faces can indicate an obstetric emergency or the presence of a hithero unsuspected conjoined twin.)

Now, current fashion would seem to dictate the total eradication of pubic hair. If you feel that the nadir of sexy is to present with the hot body of an adult woman outfitted with the mons of a three year old child you are a sick dog and I do not want to know you; but of course, that is your choice and none of my business you creepy icky potty person.

But let's say you have what you feel are good reasons to keep the trails clear. Maybe you look as though you are transporting the decapitated head of Gene Shallit. Perhaps you have wandering bush that grows over the river, through the woods, down your thighs, and tickles the tops of your hiking boots.
Or perhaps you know that to occasionally rock the Mr. Bigglesworth look is an assurance of perpetual semi-arousal until the fur comes back in.

That's right.
It is a fact. No I am not lying.

In any case, if you must depilitate, suck it the fuck up and wax. Wax, wax wax.

Why wax?

Because cream depilitories have a tendency to not stay put. Believe me, if you happen to get even the tiniest particle onto your inner labial regions, or your barking starfish, or GOD FORBID the clitoris, you WILL REMEMBER IT. And you'll have time to recall it in detail because you'll have to soak your ass for a WHOLE WEEK in a Mr. Turtle pool full of icecubes, and that means time off from work, at least in this town.

Shave it? Those first few times- lemme tell you. Setting firmly aside for the moment the psychological sugarplums that putting a MANUAL razor in proximity to your tender parts will inevitably cause to dance in your head, using a blade, even an electric, even with lube, will leave Miss Kitty all red, irritated and bumpy for days afterward. This makes Marshal Dillon cry. It'll make you cry too. IT HURTS. Not in a good way. A burny, salty, bleedy way.

And as if that weren't inconvenient enough, once shaven, those little hairs grow back fast; why, I have no idea. Nature is said to abhor a vaccuum. Ask your mom (she's downstairs washing her robe.)

Tell you what, though, in what seems like a matter of hours everything will emerge all at once, SPRONG! in the form of #40 grit sandpaper.
Ok fine. If you 're smoothing Bondo, this might save you some cash. It could even earn you a raise if you use this method in a professional autobody setting. But if you're planning on having sexual relations you're both going to end up with bad razorburn in really inconvenient places.
It should be needless to point out that butt stubble isn't particularly attractive either. It is in fact decidedly grandfatherly in appearance and texture.
The last image your partner wants to have come to mind when she is munching your muffin is kissing her grandpa. And not the nice one, either; the skeezy Parkinsons' one who smells like horehound drops.

If you decide to go for the 'Ami James' look, then, for that first time I suggest you visit a competent salon. Yes, I am asking you to pay money to have a complete stranger daub creepy sticky axlegrease-looking hot crap all over your cringing poontang, slap a page of the Herald on top and then rip the bastards out by the roots in one brief hellish explosion of pain. Why: because it pleases me to imagine it. That, and the fact that it just might possibly be worth it in the end. So to speak.

THE GOOD NEWS: because you chose to wax, you won't see any regrowth of hair for weeks. Why? Because it is AFRAID. When it does return, it will come in fine and soft, not stickery.

THE BAD NEWS: Now you have to wait a few days before resuming sex. Or doing anything besides lying in front of a fan with your legs spread (have one of those Glade Scent-Story things going; this can attract gulls.)

Chances are you ain't gonna feel much like exposing your nethers to the public anyway, nethers which are asking you 'Why? Was I bad??' in a trembly little voice and will be for at least a day or so.

Trust me, your patience will pay off ; and I mean pay off like a Bally slot. What was once a weedy pasture full of discarded farm machinery is now pouty, bouncy, breezy-bare and almost supernaturally sensitive!
Don't believe it? Sit over the motor next time you ride Transit and just see if I'm not right.
Don't blame me if you miss your stop.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Caillou Halloo! CAN YOU SEE IT NOW????

When last we met, our intrepid friend, the Baby Jesus (cleverly disguised as the ultra-aerodynamic Holy Infant of Prague) was searching far and wide for poor, lost Calliou!

Time was a commodity that none could waste! As the scope of the search grew ever larger, other fearless foes of felony joined forces!

The Friendly Infant of De Kalb!

The Cthulhu Infant of R'lyeh!

The Not Terribly Bright Infant of Shreveport!

Together, these intrepid exemplars of infancy ranged far and wide!
Their goal: to restore Caillou to the bosom of his family!

Ha; see? You thought that was going to lead into something nasty with boobs in it, didn't you. Uh-huh. I know.
Oh, I know.
You people, I swear.

Sightings began to pour in from all over the map...
This Mexican hairless pig was too small

This image was faxed from Africa. Forensic examination of the image later disqualified it.

Another disqualified sighting, Bournemouth UK.

Yeah, y'all are SO easy. *snork*

A visit to this restaurant turned out to be simply another dead with chicken and waffles on the menu and a bald cook with a prison record smoking cheap cigarettes in the greasy heat... while the eyeless white prarie dogs mocked and jeered relentlessly, teeming and seething in chittering hoardes between the blackened beams of the squalid kitchens walls...incessant, tortuous, maddening... like the white-hot, murdering heat of the merciless purple sun as it beat down upon the bleak and blasted poisonou


As seems to be inevitable in these cases the lunatic fringe turned up like a bad penny to have their say...

"He is in.....Detroit.
Oh yes, Detroit. He's in Detroit.
It's....Do I know why? Hell no I don't know why, what the...
There, now, see, now the spirits are pissed. You see what you did? Well that's it. I nearly found your pig but you just hadda go asking the spirits QUESTIONS."





Desperate times take desperate measures. Following a lead that twisted back into the the seamy side of the entertainment world, The Baby Jesus decided it was time to go deep undercover.
Suspicion had finally landed at the seedy doorstep of a possible lead...

...Mr. Swithers, owner of the haunted amusement park!!!!!!!!!


Friends, the theft of a pig is no laughing matter. I ask you; please...if you have Caillou, please return him unharmed. No questions will be asked, and no salesmen will visit your home.