Let’s see how many times I can talk about pubic hairs without actually calling them “pubic hairs.”

There was a time when I had no interest in any form of pubic landscaping…but then I got my period. Ah yes, there is nothing in this world that will jumpstart your anti-pube movement like the experience of finding a menstrual clot hiding in your forest. And you won’t even know it’s there until you take a shower, when the water washes a dark red Man O’ War-like mass out of your pubes.

I started out by shaving off my bush, but upgraded to waxing when I noticed that not only did more hairs start growing out of my pants, they were thicker too. I don’t know why people say the shaving/thicker hairs thing is a myth because I’ve seen it happen, and there is a huge difference between pre- and post-shaving pubes. The strands from my bush were so thick you could use one to pry open a window.

The moment I strayed from the path of the Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia Pussy, however, I knew there was no return. None. I know because I’ve tried to live with a beaver a number of times. Each attempt ended with me sitting in awkward positions, trying to tear out any strand of hair I could see being reflected in a mirror that was practically up my butt.

The problem stems from the thick hairs that now plague my va-jay-jay area. They are extremely prickly, and if I get lazy and let them grow to a quarter of an inch, they become too long to fit under my panties. At the same time, they are too thick to break through the fabric, so they instead are bent downwards, where they stab at me in protest.

They only attack when I’m moving around—you know, because of friction and stuff—and it can become extremely itchy. Can’t scratch your pubic area without looking like a pervert with some disease, so I end up having to deal with it by walking bow-legged in an attempt to minimize the hairs’ movements as much as I can. This solution, however, also has a negative attribute:

But at least it’s not so damn itchy!

So, until I save enough money to get laser treatments, I’m pretty much stuck with waxing—it’s either that or I learn to get used to looking like a pervert with some disease. Hmm…I choose waxing. I give myself a Brazilian bikini wax every 6 weeks or so, and am constantly on the lookout for any suspicious underbrush that might try to take root on my private plot. Any wayward pube I find is going to get torn out one way or another because my garden is a no-pubes zone.

The downsides to waxing: it is a time consuming process that is generally messy and painful, and which has resulted in occasional skin and blood loss. When this happens, I have to go back to walking bow-legged to keep my tore-up va-jay-jay from stinging me.

Argh! Why can’t I win? Why? Why? Why?

I actually do visit other websites besides Xanga, and one of my favorite ones is www.foundmagazine.com. Found Magazine is an online collection of random pieces of paper people have, well, found. Visitors are encouraged to submit things like, “love letters, birthday cards, kids’ homework, to-do lists, ticket stubs, poetry on napkins, telephone bills, doodles,”—basically any interesting paper scraps they just happen to come across. The site takes these submissions and posts a “Find of the Day,” which will easily be the most entertaining thing you will read that day.

My favorite submission, and which I think is the funniest one ever posted on the website, is a piece of paper that looks like it was part of a high school test or something. I would seriously consider becoming a teacher just so I could see things like this:

Not sure if you can decipher the handwriting, but the student wrote:

It’s curvy, with a higher bit at the end and a rather aesthetically pleasing slope downwards towards a pretty flat [straight] bit. The actual graph itself consists of 2 [straight] lines meeting at the lower left hand corner of the graph, and moving away at a 90° angle. Each line has an arrowhead on the end.

Hahahahahahahaha^{1 trillion}!

At first glance, I thought this kid was just trying to BS his way through a question he had no idea how to answer. And judging by the red marks, the teacher seemed to think the same thing. The more I read (and laughed) at the answer, however, the more I thought he was a brilliant genius who deserved full credit. Although he spelled “straight” wrong twice—which is amazing since he was able to correctly spell the word “aesthetically”—he did answer the question, i.e., he described the slope of the graph. Sure, it would have been better if he had used the words “mass” and “time” in his answer, given that they were part of the graph’s description. And yes, at the very least he could have written something like, “mass decreases as time increases until it reaches equilibrium.” But the funniness of his response—and the pleasure of laughing yourself to death at the thought of this student actually turning in his exam with that ridiculous answer—makes him worthy of an A+.

While I was in Taiwan, I saw a lot of commercials for those fancy toilets that have butt rinsing functions. The toilets have water jets built into them, and sort of look like this:

When someone activates the function, the jet appears under the person’s butt and cleans it off with a stream of water. I’ve used a peach to illustrate this feature because a piece of fruit is undeniably cuter than a crusty butt hole.

Anyway, since my butt doesn’t drink water, and I’m sure yours doesn’t either, my question is this:

Where does the water end up after it rinses someone clean?

I know it ends up in the toilet, but what about that water jet? It’s still underneath the person’s butt, isn’t it? Doesn’t that mean some poop wash ends up on the spout? If so, then the next person who takes a dump and activates the rinse function would end up getting washed off by water that has been tainted by someone else’s doodoo bits.

That can’t be how those toilets work!

I’ve had the pleasure of receiving a “first!” comment on a few of my posts. I’ve only ever seen them on websites with very high-traffic, and have thus always regarded them as a sort of prestigious honor given only to the elite. So to have someone care enough about my blog to actually leave a “first!” comment is seriously an honor that I appreciate immensely. I even feel a bit guilty sometimes because I don’t think I deserve such an accolade. It’s like giving me an Oscar for successfully lying to my parents, or awarding me with the Nobel Peace Prize for breaking up a tussle between two angry sea cucumbers—I feel so unworthy! 

If you’ve ever been in a name-calling battle, then you know that the key to beating your opponent is having a talent for quick and reflexive thinking. And if you’ve been regularly reading my blog, then you also know that I have no talent whatsoever for such quick or reflexive thinking.

Considering my lack of on-the-fly-thinking skills, you’d probably assume I would totally suck in a name-calling battle—an assumption that is well supported by many, many horrifying and embarrassing experiences I’ve had throughout my life.

Surprisingly, however, I am happy to say that as far as name-calling battles are concerned, I’m somewhat of a quick-and-reflexive-thinking savant. I guess it’s the excitement of verbally beating on someone who is trying to do the same to me, or because I keep a mental note of these comeback insults I’d come up with after hours of brainstorming like degrading others via (1) making them feel bad by hurling a witty insult into their faces, and (2) making them feel dumb because my insult was better than theirs. Whatever the reason may be, I’ve won a decent 3 out of the 4 name-calling battles I’ve been in.

The art of gracious winning, on the other hand, is still a work in progress.

Ah well, the satisfaction of winning a name-calling battle is definitely something you should experience at least once in your lifetime.

The 3 battles I’ve won were those where I was clearly the victor. The outcome of the last one, however, is not as clear. I think it should count as a win towards my record, but others have disagreed. You be the judge:

And then of course:

Personally, I think calling someone a kraken kicks total ass. First of all, it’s completely original. Most people go with the oh-so-typical arsenal of cuss words, and then try to mix-and-match them as if that will somehow make up a new word and garner them more points. At least by calling someone a kraken, the sea monster of yore, I’m showing that creativity exists in my thought process.

Secondly, krakens look like this:

Granted, the only kraken I’ve ever seen was the one in the Super NES game “Earthbound,” but still: you can’t deny that they are fugly as all hell. Therefore, calling someone a “kraken” is a bona fide insult that totally trumps calling someone a “b*tch,” and I should have won the battle for that.

Now, those who disagreed with me have argued that I don’t get points for using a word the other person doesn’t know the meaning of. They also feel that calling someone a kraken is not insulting—it’s just weak.

So I’m taking to my blog and asking for your input: who gets the win?

I’m so sorry about the delay in posting, but I’ve been in Taiwan for the past few days and haven’t been able to access the Internet. And some Typhoon Morakot has been looming nearby and is making a real mess of things. Anyway, I’ll try to post as soon as possible–been writing something on bits of scratch paper, and hopefully it’ll be done by the time the weather calms down.

I wanted to write a post about a recent conversation I had with a dumbass, but found that drawing it out was a much better way of conveying the experience.

I’m going to add this A.T.M. machine conversation to my ever-growing list of crappy moments. That I even have a list makes me think I’m destined for a lifetime of unpleasant experiences–which, in turn, means I will have blogging material until I die. I don’t know if that’s a good thing for any of you, though, because most of my experiences seem to involve doodoo. I’m pretty sure this one did as well. If the guy didn’t see the problem with saying “A.T.M. machine,” then I’ll bet he was also drinking a diarrhea latte and enjoyed it.

My sister and I are visiting our parents in Hawaii for a few days, and we’ve only been home for about 48 hours when we made a most horrifying discovery!

It happened when I took our dog out to the backyard to play. We have a lot of mango trees, and our dog likes to run behind them and explore. When I took him out this afternoon, he had decided to check out this tree by our pool. I expected him to do his usual routine of smelling around in search of some baby mangoes that had fallen on the ground, but instead he looked at something in the dirt and then came running back to the house. That was really unlike him, and it made me think he had maybe gotten stung by a centipede or something. So I went behind the tree to see what was wrong and I saw…a giant clump of doodoo!

It was just lying there behind the tree, where is must have been for awhile because it was dried out. And it was huge. There was no way our dog laid that turd. He’s a little Pomeranian; his entire doodoo chain is about the size of a house key. The poop pile in the backyard, however, was almost the same size as he was. What the hell, right? The last time I saw giant poop in the yard was back when our golden retriever Custard was still alive. He’s in Dog Heaven now, and probably pissed that someone desecrated his territory.

Since I knew a Pomeranian couldn’t have laid this mysterious giant turd, I came up with two theories about how the poop ended up in our yard:

1. My parents had secretly adopted a large dog and were hiding it from my sister and me for some reason.

2. Someone took a dump behind our mango tree (I had my money on this one because I couldn’t find a second dog anywhere in our house).

Anyway, I decided to ask my parents for answers. If anyone would know the origins of a random poop pile, it would be them because parents always seem to know the answers to everything. And I figured dinner would be the most opportune time to present my theories to them. But because the topic was about doots—which isn’t exactly the best thing to discuss while eating—I made sure to bring it up all sneaky-like.

DADDY: Is this today’s newspaper?

SISTER: Yes.

ME: Speaking of newspapers…did someone make doodoo in our yard?

Okay, so my transition needed work, but you wouldn’t have thought so if you saw my dad’s reaction—or, rather, lack thereof. Instead of being shocked at the news that there might be human poop in our backyard, my dad instead calmly replied, “It was the pool guy. He’s done that a few times already.”

Um…first of all, I didn’t know we still had a pool guy. Our pool looks like it hasn’t been cleaned in years: it is full of leaves, dead bees, and other random bits of debris. That is sort of the opposite of cleanliness, isn’t it?

Secondly, what the hell is this guy doing taking multiple dumps on a client’s property? And what does he wipe with? I didn’t see any traces of toilet paper or sh*t-smeared leaves anywhere near the turd pile—oh no…please don’t tell me he washes himself off in the pool!

According to my parents, our previous pool guy—who was, by the way, extremely professional and always did a thorough job—stopped working for the maintenance company, and was replaced by this pop-a-squat new guy three months ago. This guy can’t clean a pool to save his life. He did improve after my parents joined other clients in complaining about his performance, but he has recently started doing shoddy work again. I think it’s pretty obvious this guy is a lazy ass. Hello! He took a dump on someone else’s property!

My parents are 100% sure the pool guy is the culprit, but they won’t file a complaint until they have actual proof. Unfortunately, he only comes Wednesdays while my parents are working, and that means evidence is hard to come by. My sister and I, however, are going to be home for a few days and have decided to put an end to his disgusting doodoo-ing. He’s scheduled for tomorrow, so we have come up with a few ideas on how to achieve our goal:

1. A Sign

We will make a sign out of a chopstick and a notecard, with a message written in pidgin. And then we’ll stick the sign into the doodoo so that the next time the pool guy needs to take a dump, he will see the sign and realize we are on to him!

2. Surveillance Camera/Replay

For this plan, we will hide a surveillance camera somewhere in the mango tree and record the pool guy when he runs back there to crap.

Once we catch him in the act, we’ll play the footage on a screen that will magically appear behind him. Not only will he see himself being a disgusting asshat, he will also realize we are on to him! 

3. Poopy Trap

And finally, our last plan of punishment is to set up a poopy trap. When the pool guy goes behind the tree and steps on a certain spot, it will activate a slingshot hiding in the branches. The slingshot will then hurl his dried up doots into his face, and he will know we are on to him!

So! Which plan do you think we should go with?

Can you spot the differences between the two drawings?

Those are pictures of the trash room in my apartment complex. The first one is what the room is supposed to look like: it is nice and clean, and has a fully intact black recycling bin located right across the trash chute. The second picture is what the room actually looks like: there are trash bags on the floor, flies and gnats all over the place, and the recycling bin doesn’t have a lid.

When I first moved in, the bin still had a lid that looked like this:

The top had the message “bottles and cans” printed on it in large white letters, which I interpreted to mean that the recycling bin was for bottles and cans only. Someone, however, threw the lid away so he could throw in his Domino’s Pizza box.

I didn’t see the logic in that at first, but then I put on my Retarded Douche Bag Hat. You should always keep one handy in case you find yourself stuck dealing with a dumbass.

Anyway, the Retarded Douche Bag Hat helped me see that sure, the lid said “bottles and cans,” but it didn’t say “no pizza boxes.” And if “no pizza boxes” wasn’t printed on the lid, then it can only mean one thing: “yes” to pizza boxes. Duh.

Unfortunately, you can’t fit a box through a hole that is only big enough for a bottle or can. Under those circumstances, it makes perfect sense to throw the lid away. Thank goodness the trash chute is conveniently located!

Ever since the lid’s mysterious disappearance, some residents have begun using the recycling bin as a trash can. Why they would do this when there is freaking trash chute in front of the bin is beyond me. Maybe they think it’s an oven or something, I don’t know, but finding the recycling bin full of someone else’s garbage has started to piss me off. As someone who gets her vitamins and nutrients primarily from foods that come in bottles and cans, I am often able to fill the bin with just a week’s worth of glass, plastic, and aluminum containers. So I like knowing that while I am probably cutting my life short with my bad eating habits, at least I am doing it in an Earth-friendly way.

However! Now that people have started filling up the recycling bin with their trash, my attempts to live like a greenie have hit a somewhat burdensome snag. But instead of saying “screw you, Mother Earth!” and throwing my bottles and cans down the trash chute, I take the time to fish the garbage bags out of the bin. I’ve been doing this for months now, just for the sake of buying my way into Heaven the planet.

At first, removing the trash bags from the bin didn’t annoy me much. I mean, it was disgusting for sure–especially whenever the bags were leaky or contained rotten food–but I didn’t mind since the trash chute was so close that I didn’t have to handle the bags for longer than a few seconds.

But then there was last Tuesday–the day Mother Earth decided to b*tch slap me with her balls. I had gone to the trash room with my weekly collection of bottles and cans and, as usual, found garbage bags in the recycling bin. And as usual, I began removing the bags and throwing them down the chute.

Trash always smells like crap, but one particular bag smelled crappier than usual. I grabbed it and was all ready to throw it down the chute when I suddenly felt something warm fall onto my foot.

The trash bag was filled with dirty diapers that were so heavy they broke through the bottom of the bag. And that warm thing I felt was a diaper. It was overflowing with so much steamy sh*t that my foot ended up covered in the most noxious brown paste to ever come out of a human body. Even I haven’t dumped a load that foul, and I eat junk every single day!

I’ve had it with the recycling bin abuse. That incident was the sh*t that broke the camel’s back, and I’m done putting up with dumbass residents. Therefore, I am going to make a new lid for the recycling bin. I have the materials to do this, I only need a kick ass phrase to put on the top because just having “bottles and cans” printed on it is not enough. Remember: I am dealing with Retarded Douche Bags who basically deserve getting their asses owned by a makeshift lid.

And who better to ask for input than you guys, right? I’ve read your comments, and many of you have deliciously snarky humor.  So dearest readers, what phrases do you suggest I put on the lid? The meaner they are, the better…oh, and in as many foreign languages as possible…we definitely want to cover all the bases, you know?

No one should have to experience feces foot! And with your help, we can eliminate this evil and make the world a better place!