Girls Who Can Take Four (4) Fingers In Their Snatch

OR MORE!!!!


I asked The Laird what would make an excellent choice for a new blog post, and this is what he suggested.


Without betraying a whole lot of confidences, I can't possibly write a whole blog about this....

Or can I?!

Here it is! Based on superstition and fear, I hereby present:
Girls Who Can Take Four (4) Fingers In Their Snatch or History's Whores; a Celebration of What Were Almost Certainly Very, Very Sloppy Slits.

Caroline of Brunswick:

Sweet Caroline...
Pretty much the only man in Europe who didn't get a piece of this shit was her husband, England's George IV. George was so repulsed by her that he began drinking immediately after their first meeting 3 days prior to their wedding, and didn't stop til he woke up face-down in the fireplace grate... the wedding night. He managed to rise to the occasion just once, apparently that very night. 9 months after the wedding, Caroline gave birth to their only child (England's heir, the doomed Princess Charlotte). George sent a letter saying thanks, that was really great, but let's see other people, and not each other, ever again.

The other people George wanted to see was his "real" wife, Maria Fitzherbert to whom he'd already been married 8 years when he wed Caroline.

The other people Caroline wanted to see was... everyone.

Caroline packed her unwashed panties and moved onto "The Continent." She became famous for her dinner parties and especially the after-dinner entertainment, which usually included lots of topless dancing. Performed by her. She would proudly show "special" guests her wind-up oriental sex doll, and occasionally dance naked on the pier when she grew bored with doing it at home.
She fucked Napoleon's brother, a slew of footmen in her employ, stable hands, any number of lesser Nobles, and possibly the oriental doll. Times were fast and fun 'til the Old King died and George's number came up for duty. Caroline traveled to England fully expecting to be crowned Queen alongside him. Instead, Parliament offered her a fortune to leave and never, ever come back. She didn't take the subtle hint, and showed up at his coronation, crown in hand, only to be summarily locked out of the church. Being a lady and a Queen and all, she did the only thing she could do. She screamed obscenities at the door until she grew tired, then she went home and died.

Fing-O-Meter: A solid 4, because she may have had a bastard or two after birthing the Princess Royal, and because she didn't mind the occaisional low-born brute.


Maria-Theresa of Austria:

(Empress Maria Theresia Walburga Amalia Christina... we got nuthin' but time and names, bitches.)

It's not so much that she whored her way to a gaping gash; no, she was above reproach. (At least in the bedroom.) What gets Maria-Theresa on our enviable list isn't her in-put, but her out-put. She had 16 mother-fucking kids in 20 years, a feat that would blow anyone's vag out. And she didn't pull any of that Catherine of Aragon cheater-pants stuff; they were all full-term and live. For a while at least. 13 of the original 16 lived to be diplomatic pawns, so that's good.
She was married to a paragon of manliness named Francis Joseph of Lorraine (sexy), who somehow managed to find time to fuck other women despite the demanding schedule of Maria Theresa's ovulation cycles.

Their last daughter grew up to be Marie Antionette. Prior to Marie's marriage and unfortunate remarks about diamond necklaces and cake (didn't happen!!) she was famous first for walking out of her mother's womb while hula-hooping and using pantomime instead of crying. Because that shit was HUGE. These weren't normal babies. These were fucking AUSTRIAN babies. They were goggle-eyed and had massive Ha'pint-sized foreheads and paniers and powdered wigs. Probably 10 pounds a piece. So you know that the panty-pudding must've looked like a deflated inner-tube at the end of summer.

By the time she shat out the ninth or tenth, Maria Theresa stopped even taking bed-rest on the day off birth. She literally got up out of her bed and went to a meeting with her ministers immediately after delivery the day Marie Antionette was born. A woman's gotta have hobbies. Besides riding Francis raw every night.

Fing-O-Meter: At least 5. Not only did she pop out babies like an 18th century human salad-shooter, but you have to spot her points for ease of insertion. After-birth makes good lube.


Catherine the Great:

Catherine really WAS great, if for no other reason than her passion for knowing how to solve problems like nation-wide slavery without actually doing anything about it. (Serf's up.) But we're here to talk about her twat. Catherine started slow, building both her character and sexual frustration over the course of the first 10 years of her marriage to the idiot Grand Duke Peter of Holstein. (Yes.. like the cow.) He would set up army men on their bed and demand that she play with him into the night. He would capture and hang the Palace mice for misconduct. He also drooled. Catherine put up with this shit just long enough to figure out what a penis was and how to use it, then devoted herself to happily popping out a couple of heirs to the Russian throne. Concieved, of course, through the assistance of people other than Peter, who was still working through complex maneuvers on the four-poster.
Meat-work done, Catherine set out to have some real fun. She took over the throne of Russia, and collected a series of lovers and paramours from all stations of life. She was Empress and all, so she implemented a handy-dandy free-clinic style STD screening process. She had her potential lovers fuck her handmaids first. If the girls didn't get freckles on their ass, then Catherine would take the new boy for a spin.
But what makes her a 4-finger champion? She eventually got tired of all the effort she was putting into recruiting her new pieces of ass, and so she sub-contracted that part out to her former lover (and possible secret husband), Gregory Potemkin.
Gregory stank, had rotten teeth and was missing an eye. He could throw some mean dick, though, so even after the spark of romance dissipated, she kept him around as the imperial pimp. Sweeeet.

And if there is any question about Cathy's capacity, consider the fact that IN HER OWN LIFETIME, the Russian people had already started circulating stories about her sexual appetite. She was rumored to have fucked her way through most of the standing Russian army and a few visiting delegations as well. And then there is the Horse. Mr. Ed supposedly crushed her to death in coitus.

Fing-O-Meter: 10. Totally. Bitch had to knock the cock out of her ass just to take a dump. I doubt the horse story only because there's no way the horse would have been able to find a hole on her that was tight enough to offer a little friction.

Horses have standards.


Aperitif:
Napoleon wasn't quite the sad little dwarf of legend. He stood at about 5 feet, 7 inches tall. This was a skooge above average male height for the time. To clarify, he wasn't 4 feet tall. That is erroneous. His cock was 4 feet tall.
Napoleon: 5' 7". Josephine's Tube Steak: 4'.
Get it right.

Pop Goes the Damsel

So I've popped a few zits in my day. It comes with the territory. In addition to feeding me fat-back (a substance only really poor white trash eat and then only as a "garnish") as a main-dish with the nightly meat-n-three as a child, the parents also passed on to me a digestive system marked by the ability to shoot lava-hot acidic bile out of either my ass OR mouth, and the sort of skin that Ukrainian orphans who work in sulphur mines would describe as "rough."

My brother had it first, which, in addition to priming my taste for popping zits and excavating pimples, served as a sort of warning shot for the perils of continuing life into adolescence. My brother, "Leslie," had cystic acne starting from his hairline and continuing all the way down to his ass. Back, chest and various crevices were not spared. I spent some of the happiest hours of my life as a child, (there was a decade age gap) huddled next to him on a floor, with a bobby-pin, upholstery needle and nail clippers in rotation as I gouged at his cratered carcass like a turkey vulture with a swiss-army-knife for a beak. Leslie's moans of anguish as I tapped the upholstery needle into assorted infected pores with a heavy book were soothing, sort of like Enya for hill-billies.
Which brings us to the point, which is that I LIKE to pop zits. It's not just the popping itself with its heady mixture of pain and pleasure, anticipation and release. Sort of like masturbating with a penis instead of the usual equipment, if you're a girl. It's also the endless possibilities after the thing has shot it's load, and you're standing there in the bathroom, holding this slightly damp, elegantly curled albino fairy-turd on your finger and wonder what life will be like from now on. Now the REAL magic happens. You wipe it on the mirror.

I call this "frosting the frame" and it's a must-do for any arts and crafts fan, or just the recreational face picker. You start low, usually the bottom of the frame, as it's convenient to the finger and face, post-pop. With careful planning and a little imagination, you can create miniature macrame works of art using only facial effluvium and creativity. My roommate, for instance, only recently discovered that our bathroom mirror frame did not in fact have a paisley pattern worked upon it in low relief. Or rather, that it DID, but simply had not been that way at the moment of purchase. He still gags when he thinks about the gently curdled and yellowed pile of minute maggots nestled in the tissue after I made a wipe across the frame with it. Sure, it upset 6 months of work, but there will be more.

There are always more.

Ha'pint brought up the "pock-marked" reference from an earlier post, and felt like I must be describing her. To be fair, she cultivates an admirable crop of diminuitive and deep pimples with every cycle of panty-plague and school, work and home related stress. But it was not her I referred to, but myself. The craters on my face will become, like my mother's, more pronounced with age and misjudgement, but for now, both Ha'pint and myself are more or less "passing" in the world of lesser-blighted people. It is entirely due to inspired application of cosmetics and advantageous light.

Plus, she's got this thing going on with her bangs... If her forehead was the Titanic, which it almost is, then imagine the hair she has combed over one side of it at a jaunty angle to be the deluge of passengers jockeying for position to get the hell off the ship before it sinks. These are the sort of bangs which provide very particular and effective pimple cover all on their own. I've never seen a zit under them (who could?) but I imagine it would be like stumbling upon a small but fiercely independent group of refugees hiding in a tent from immigration officials.

The Money Shot:
Women and men in 17th and 18th century France used little black pieces of felt cut into whimsical shapes to cover their facial imperfections. They would paste them onto whatever they didn't feel like was up to the sexy standard the rest of their "look" set, which usually included a shit-ton of powder, wigs, hideous lip-paint, mouthwash made from human piss (Portugese was best!) and cosmetics made from arsenic.
This is what you looked like if you had money to really fix yourself up.

Always Bring a Friend

"A..........un? Th.. --- ur Mother! Ca...-------- me?"

"Mom? Is that you? What?"

"Ah....... un!! D....----...(sounds not unlike those of a masticating lion if it had a microphone shoved up its ass to record the chewing noises) ... !!!"

"Mom, I don't know where you are, or what the fuck you're doing, but I can't hear you. Or at least, I hope I can't. I'm hanging up. Love you. Bye."

I returned to what I was doing, which if memory serves me correctly, comprised of organizing my collection of comic book trading cards according to "coolness." The reprieve was short-lived, however.

"Can you ...--..-...--- now?"

"No, not really. Where are you?"

"...---.....--- HEAR ME?!"

"NO. I CAN NOT. GO AWAY UNTIL YOU HAVE SOME DECENT RECEPTION!"

"I SAID, CAN YOU HEAR ME?!"

"That's better. Mom, it's.. (Holy Hell!! It was solidly 11:45! And it was a Saturday night! My Mother usually goes to bed at times that the Amish consider excessively early!) it's 11:45! Jesus, Mom what the crap are you doing up? And why is your reception so shitty? Are you at Berle's? Is everything okay?"

**Background.... My Mother at this point in her life, spent her weekends as the primary caregiver for an octegenerian half-uncle named Berle, called "Berlie." He was a parsimonious hoarder who lived alone after the death of his morbidly obese diabetic daughter, "Morlene". Morlene, called "Reener" from birth, had also been a hoarder, and had amassed an astonishing and horrific collection of Ashton-Drake porcelain dolls, even as she'd sloughed off a succession of neither-limbs and appendages as offerings to the Diabetic Dieties. Added to these was Berle's stash of rotted pecans, canned goods that spanned 5 different presidential administrations and small plastic baggies of his own bloody toenail clippings. He lived next door to the church he'd attended all his life, so being a shut-in (except on Sundays) really suited him. What he saw of the world came through his television set, the bits of trash his homeless VFW buddy, Robert brought in for him to hoard, and my Mother, whose main functions were to carefully document his bowel movements using the traditional "gold star" method, take him to the grocery store, and by stealth and cunning, to carry the trash Robert brought in, back out.


"Mom? Can you hear me?"

"I can hear you fine! You're never going to believe where I am!"

"Okay, where are you?"

"I'm driving with Berle up and down Catfish Country Road, trying to get away from Drugs Pirates!"

"...What?"

"Wooooooo!!! Ain't this fun, Berlie? (Muffled sounds of my elderly Great-Uncle, obviously not having fun.)"

"Mom? Are you okay?"

"Oh, we just had the best time! We went to the grocery store and got us a can of sausage for in the morning, and some of those frozen biscuits I like, and some grape jelly and a pack of gold stickers for Berlie's calender."

"So why are you out driving at midnight? Are you lost?"

"No! I told you we're on.."

"I heard that part. WHY are you still out driving?"

"Because those Drugs Pirates* saw me with their Drugs."
*seriously, the term she used throughout the conversation.

"Mom, I love you. I don't know what you're talking about, and I have a feeling I'd like to. So what the fuck are you doing and WHY are you doing it? And what do you mean 'drugs?'"

"Don't say "fuck!" It sounds like trash."

"Right. 'Drugs.' Explain."

"....------...awenooidn......"

"Mom? What? HELLO?"

"...------ FUCK THIS GODDAMN PIECE OF SHIT PHONE!"

"Mom... maybe you should stop driving."

"It's not the driving it this piece of shit phone. And I can't stop here."

"Why can't you pull over? Are you sure you're not lost?"

(Sound of Berle furiously mumbling from the passenger seat of my Mother's Mercedes.)

"Berlie doesn't want us to stop here. We're in nigger-town."

"Jesus fucking CHRIST just tell me why you called?!"

"That's what I'm trying to do. Berle and me were at the grocery over in Boger City. We don't like that new place."

"Of course you don't. Why should you? It's clean and well-stocked. So you drove 10 minutes out of your way to go to the shittiest grocery store in town and..."

"Berlie had a coupon."

"Fine. Please continue."

"So we get there and it's late, and dark and we were gonna go in and out reeeeal quick. We got us a buggy and went to the doors and that's when I found the brick of Marra-wanna. It looked just like a green brick, didn't it Berlie?"
(Muffled screams from the passenger seat.)

"OH, SHIT! Me and Berlie almost hit one of them!"

"One of what? A black person?"

"No! A possum."

"Okay... seriously, please start driving back to Berle's house. You're scaring him and me, and I'm not even in the car."

"I'm driving back, but I've gotta tell you this! So we found the brick of Marra-wanna, and I put it in the baby-seat on my buggy and pushed it around the store. I knew it was Marra-wanna because it smelled like my brother. I remember that smell... anyway, so I pushed it around and around while we shopped and pretty soon, all them boys that works there was followin' us around just like a parade! They all wanted to look at my green grass baby in it's seat!"
(Mom guffaws and hoots.)

"You've got to be kidding. You seriously found a fucking SLAB of weed at a grocery store and you pushed it around like a baby? For how long?!"

"Until we checked out. That's when the manager came up and said that we couldn't buy it and he took it. All them boys was sad. They bagged my sausage and the biscuits and the jelly and the stickers and OH! I also got some of that spicy mustard. They bagged it and we were going to leave, but then I looked out the windows and saw a bunch of flashlights just a'FLASHIN. Right out in the parking lot! So that's when I knew me and Berlie was in danger. So I asked them boys to escort us out and they did, and then I pulled out of the parkinglot reeeeeal sneaky like, and got about half-way home. We were almost at the Court House and I saw the lights in my mirror!"

"Like, a cars' headlights?"

"Yes! Right behind us! So I knew we'd been followed! So I decided those Drugs Pirates weren't going to take me and Berlie without a fight! He cooked on a battleship in the War! He's a soldier! So I took off and whipped around the court-square 7 or 8 good times til I got my speed up and threw them off... then I took off and we've been driving all around to confuse them ever since."


I'll skip ahead to the part where my Mother, finally at Berle's house, safe and hyper from her brush with the Pirates, continued her conversation with me regarding the evening's fun. It was the end of the conversation and she'd re-hashed (pun intended) the events gleefully several times. These were her parting words to me.

"I'll tell you what... I've never done anything so brave. But I wish I'd kept the Marra-wanna. I kind of want to take some after all I went through for it."


Post-script panoply:
Catherine the Great, Empress of Russia never fucked a horse. She did, however, keep a gnarly, unwashed, one-eyed retired Military Man named Grigory Potemkin around for a few years as her principle lover. When they got tired of each other, he naturally moved into the vacant post of "Royal Pimp," spending the remainder of his grungy years hand-picking Catherine's lovers.

I don't want to think about the screening process.

Hurry up, Ha'pint! We miss you!

New Feature! Heinous Fuckery from the World of Print

Today heralds a whole new feature for The Crotch Rot, one that I have been contemplating since the inception of this prosaic wasteland. As you, my loyal minions know, I pass my days at a venerable local new and used book purveying institution we shall refer to as "Booxieland." Booxieland is a fan-fucking-tastic place to work, as it affords me nearly endless opportunities to mock the various wreckages of humanity who shop at book stores, as well as a chance to practice new material on my co-workers; a motley band of physically, socially and mentally frustrated outsiders. We count among our current and past ranks a handful of matrimonially challenged mothers in assorted cup sizes, Crazy Cousin Vicky who killed a tree using only her mind and a 2x4, a pathological liar, an over-sexed, pock-marked sociopath (me!), a public hoarder who may belong to a cult, a married couple who both resemble 1950's Japanese movie monsters, and a goat-fucker all united under the leadership of our oft-kilted and pony-tailed esteemed leader, The Laird, in a never-ending quest to provide excellent customer service to the morons who shop with us.
But while the work environment is a constant smorgasbord of awesomeness, there is, in fact, an even greater benefit to working at Booxieland: the books. No, not the cosseted and bland best-sellers that cross the trade desk, nestled in an equally offensive nest of paper-back formulaic romances, science fiction tales and "action-suspense" novels. The books that catch my eye are the really groovy books that somehow, somewhere, got published in flagrant disregard to public taste or reason. Maybe its an incredibly ill-conceived cover or author photo. Perhaps a page or two of dialogue is the stuff of dreams and legends. Mayhaps an illustration or several in the interior set it apart in general freakishness. These are the books that make Booxieland the Best Little Bookstore in the South-East.
And these are the books that will be considered, one at a time in our new feature:
Heinous Fuckery from the World of Print!
First up, a true jewel of a tract from that swingin' year of 1971!



Innocuous enough cover... apparently Mr. Lovett is keen on taking back "White Power" in addition to squelching the blight of crime, sex and dope. Too bad the prohibition against dope didn't apply to the type-setter hired for
this
job
.
Moving on, we approach the simple instructions that Mr. Lovett has presented to us in order to help the sinful public understand the best way to use his book. Not simply satisfied with the application of extremely aggressively worded hyper-conservative Christian piffle, he goes further and offers extremely helpful tools to the rest of us, incapable of following the prose.



As you see, the Holy Spirit, widely held to be a sort of invisible zombie-format Jesus, dwells in the crotch of this really ominous, unnecessarily large set of nutcrackers. Yep, let it soak in... "crotch" and "nutcrackers." Keep that general theme of emasculation in mind. But the illustration does help; we are to be aware at all times that our greed for freshly shelled pecans may just bring about a second crucifixion of Christ, this time with razor-sharp nut shells causing the stigmata. But wait! What does this have to do with reigning in my unruly teenager, Mr. Lovett? Do you have some sort of additional illustration that may clarify your position on the "package-punishment-teeny bopper" triumverant of evil?



Ah! Okay! Much better. So the teenager is the "nut!" Haha! Very good, sir!

But I digress. The whole point of this book is discipline of teens, and not just any teens but Jerry and Judy, two pathologically unlucky, disadvantaged kids if ever there were any. Try as they may, they just couldn't get past the iron fist of parental instruction in the home. Time to meet the kids!



Hey! It's Jerry! The extremely well-groomed young man who appears as a disembodied head with a bright future and an aching jaw. Times are tough for Jerry at home; his folks just don't seem to understand. But hey, they aren't perfect... it says so right there on the child protective services folder photograph. Jerry didn't just have trouble with dad, though.



"Gosh, Mom! You know how much I hate having to watch you salute the tiny photograph of Hitler while standing with absolutely no irony under the Disneyland pennant... Oh! Ouch! Now I see. You used to be cool mom... I really wish you'd stop reading that literature dad keeps bringing home. I think wearing short sleeves means you're a whore... OUCH! Okay, okay! I repent!"

But Jerry's troubles were far from over. Here's an image of our young hero, trying desperately to catch a few winks in the backseat of the family Nova Wagon.



Here's a helpful passage from the book:



Geez! This kid is Satan's fucking penis or something! What a rotten egg! I mean, obviously, this kid is nothing but trouble. The mind eventually takes in the whole paragraph... "water from a hose...", " stealing food from the fridge..." (but that food's for the FAMILY!), "30 days on just water until he hears the voice of the Spirit?!" What the hell did this kid do?!



Fair enough. Hey... weren't there TWO kids? Of course! Judy, the penitential slut who inexplicably must always be photographed from behind, with emphasis on her legs. Let's see what's happening with Judy these days!



No young lady, you can't. Not til you take those pants and love beads off and wear your burlap mu-mu like a good little bride of Christ. I can tell by that look in your eye... you've been to YOUTH CAMP, haven't you?! You know what that leads to!



Shiiiiiiiittttttt. This is officially the first time I regret not getting involved with organized religion. But this does offer an interesting take on the play of good and evil in the average congregation... "Pray hard enough and Satan will make you fuck the Preacher's son?" Never fear, though. Judy's parents soon found a thoughtful and appropriate way to deal with her burgeoning sexuality.



Oh, something tells me she did. Over and over.

This wraps up our tupenny book review! Godspeed, Judy and Jerry... Godspeed.


After-dinner mint:
My mother widely holds the belief that "Assorted" is in fact, a kind of thing. For instance, she delights in Assorted Fruit Jam, admires the foliage on the elusive Assorted Shade Tree, and has at least on one occasion, yearned for the singular sensation of an Assorted Chocolate. Nothing else will do.

Dumbasses of the latter 16th century;Englisher Edition

Ha'pint has been gone for three days now, and in honor of such, I dedicate this post to her noble sacrifice on the altar of good family relations. Some people have orgies or write a post-card. Ha'pint is hard-core. She's locking herself with them, Steve Irwin style, in a monkey-freaking cabin in NEW YORK. Where no one will ever hear her screams, except for the people making her scream, of course. Excelsior, Ha'pint!


Next up in our engaging series on stupid fuckers of the latter Tudor period, I present for your approval the "English Edition." Same great flavor of the "Scottish Edition" with half the sodomy.



The Cloptons of Clopton were pretty much fucked from the moment they thought of naming themselves the "Cloptons of Clopton." But Fate wasn't quite through with them yet. The Cloptons have the dubious distinction of providing the inspiration for "Romeo and Juliet" a relatively unknown play by William Shakespeare. And just what was it about the Cloptons of Clopton that caught the attention of the Noble bard? Was it because of a looooove match between two warring families? No. Was it due to a tragic double-suicide between star-crossed teenagers? No again.

It was because they accidentally buried their daughter alive.
But it was an accident!

See, their kid (lets call her "McKayla") caught the plague, and times being what they were, the touching death-bed farewell was more like an abbreviated three-stooges skit with assorted parties getting knocked down, picked up by their noses and knocked down again. Buckets of water were possibly thrown and a priest or two may have been called. After what we can safely assume was a lack-luster administration of the Last Rites, she was pronounced "out of the office indefinitely." They buried the girl in "indecent haste" in the family crypt, presumably keeping the door cracked for future use. (C'mon... we got this plague on! Shit was brutal!) Upon re-entering the crypt some days later when they went to throw in another cord or two of Clopton hash, some looky-loo who was obviously not around the day they decided McKayla was dead, noticed that something was 'different'. It was quickly discovered that in the ensuing week or so, she had gotten up, walked to a wall, sat down, and died with a bit more gusto than the first effort.

But not before biting "a tender piece of meat" out of her own fucking shoulder. (A girl's gotta keep a little air of mystery and intrigue about her.)

Some generations later, proving that the 'Stoopid Gene' can't be simply waited out, the same family produced another ill-fated chit, this one named Margheretta. She apparently became distraught when Mumsey and Dadsey wouldn't let her 'consort' with (give blow jobs, sticky Hitlers, dirty Sanchezes, cowtails, pink sleeves, flying horse-pies, angry coppers, brick slaps, ring-tosses, sock salads or juicy fruit shuffles to) her boyfriend. After carefully considering all of her options, she flung herself into the family well, where her bloated corpse remained for years because conditions were "too wet" to fish it out. (That would be a contemporary account of the circumstances the good Cloptons faced. "Too Wet." Really.)

And don't think for a second that they weren't still drinking that water. These were the Elizabethans, fuckers. They did whatever the hell they wanted.


Have a little something to cleanse the palate:

A few random Laws of Spurious Virtue from New York's past and present:
* Pinball machines are not to be played on Sunday. (Ocean City)
* During a concert, it is illegal to eat peanuts and walk backwards on the sidewalks. (Greene)
* New Yorkers cannot dissolve a marriage for irreconcilable differences, unless they both agree to it. (State Law)
* It is illegal to disrobe in a wagon. (Sag Harbor)
* It is illegal for a father to call his son a “faggot” or “queer” in an effort to curb “girlie behavior. (Staten Island...and I can assure the Statenites that this is really a futile effort. When you've got more than 3 kinds of "Broadway" in your state, the boys is gonna be fruity.)
* You may only water your lawn if the hose is held in your hand. (Also Staten Island, and I hope completely unrelated to the one above.)

Sweet Nostalgia

In honor of my pal Ha'pint, The Crotch Rot is on a tentative day-to-day schedule for the duration of her family vacation. Rock on, Ha'pint...rock on. And good luck with Uncle Lymphoma.






"I have a huge favor to ask. You can't tell anyone what this is about."

"Okay! Shoot!"

"Seriously, Choll. You can't tell ANYONE."

"I said 'okay!' What is it?!"

"Okay... I talked to my mom, and she said I need you to pop the thing on my ass."


The voice on the phone was that of my roommate and erstwhile girlfriend, The Bride. Joy is quite insufficient as a word to describe my elation. This wasn't any run-of-the-mill zit or boil. This was a massive, pulsating, blistered ulcer-looking motherfucker that had emerged from the otherwise smooth terrain of my ex-girlfriend's ass like a tumorous submarine breaking the surface of a calm ocean. It even had a faintly death-like smell.

She'd spent days hobbling about the apartment, developing the kind of gingerly prance usually associated with homosexual broadway stage lackeys and professional race-horse jockeys. And through it all I had offered many, many times to "do" something about it. But alas, the fear in her eyes as I brandished manicure scissors and upholstery needles anticipated a definite "NO, NOT ON YOUR FUCKING LIFE."

Hence, that magical day when she finally was unable to sit even long enough to drive the 10 minutes it took her to get to work.

So, an hour after the phone call demanding discretion, I stood at the ready for a spot o'home surgery. The sofa bed was pulled out and covered in a red blanket that would theoretically hide the blood-stains. I had the tools of my trade spread out on the seat of a peeling green wooden chair; sewing needle, tweezers, Swiss army knife, fore-mentioned manicure scissors, fork and a lighter for sanitary purposes were nestled on a beach towell, also for sanitary purposes. For sterilization and pain management I had a quarter of a bottle of Smirnoff Vodka at the ready.

The Bride approached the sofa bed with grim determination, threw off the Harry Potter sleep-pants and "Tuesday!" underwear that stood between me and my meat-work, and with a sigh and a tremble, she lay across the mattress.

It was around this point that I began madly giggling. It was decided that we should all have some vodka.

The outer-most skin was slippery, thin and almost paper-like in its capacity to tear. All I had to do was pop the largest of the puss-pockets clinging to the film of bubbled skin and use the needle and scissors to move the chunkier pieces out of the way. To my surprise, the under-layer was an even more complex network of pockets, bubbles arranged like high-rise slums over a fetid street of Mexico-grade general slime.

I remember the barely-audible ::pop:: that each little pillow of puss made as I squeezed it in the tweezers. The occasional application of vodka to ass and mouth kept things mostly calm during this juncture, which was good because right about then, shit got weird. One of the little pockets of spider-spoo was occupied by what appeared to be a leg or mandible or some other fuckery from the spider itself. With the diligence and care of an archaeologist, I eventually excavated most of an entire mutant insect from the festering confetti of her butt-cheek. It was pretty fucking gnarly.

I was excited by this development. So excited that I may have gouged Em's cheek a bit with the fork. But she was shlitzed by that point, riding on alternating waves of pain, vodka and nausea, so I celebrated my victory on behalf of archnaphobics everywhere in solitude.

Moral of the story? Don't ask someone to dig Noah's Ark out of your ass and keep it a secret. Seriously.

Wacky shit to consider:
George Washington spent about 25% of his annual salary on booze every year he was in the White House. This was on top of an entertaining budget, provided by Congress. In all fairness, if you woke up next to Martha and that insipid little lace doily every morning, you'd need to be shit-faced by noon too.