When you're a hairy and greasy little Portuguese bitch like me, you know how hard it can be to walk through life. Constantly drunk and smelling like fried cod, it's hard to do things that even Italians can do. Finding a date can be tough and sometimes it's hard to pinpoint the cause because of the laundry list of reasons when you look into the mirror.
Is it because I'm short? Is it because I'm fat? Is it because whenever I take a shit at your house, I leave a trail of dingleberries behind me? It could be all three.
Me, I zone in on one thing. The easiest to fix. I can't walk on stilts. I refuse to stop eating potato salad. What can I do? Wax the Iberian peninsula of my body: the butthole.
Why would I even figure that this would be the correct direction in fixing my love life? Nobody could see the curled papery knots of despair at first glance and thanks to the invention of pants and underwear, nobody had to. It would only be later into a date, seconds before getting pegged, that anyone would even give a shit about the poopy smell killing their arousal.
None of it matters now. The hair has since grown back. I looked around for a wax place. I looked up Brazilian wax because I figured they were used to dealing with this kind of hair. "Uh," I asked on the telephone, "Do you do men's buttholes?" All the time, of course they did. I went in the next day. It hurt like hell. The lady asked me, "Is this your first time?" as she ripped the ridges right out of my rectum. Yes. Yes it was, thank you very much.
"What's the reason? Love life?"
But by that time my innie had become an oozing outtie. I wouldn't be worrying about dingleberries or anything else for that matter. My butthole was stuck to some piece of waxing tape and getting thrown into trash cans next to the clinic where they harvest fetal tissue.
It took me a few days to be able to sit down but, let me tell you, the shit just slipped out. Didn't even have to wipe. No dingleberries and still no dates.
Now I use a bidet.