The Manscaping Massacre

I recently went out on a date.

It had been awhile due mostly to the unemployment derived cash flow problems. I didn’t hink I wanted to get back into the dating pool.

I went to the bar, found the first republican there (remember, “republican” now means hot, classy lady) and proceeded to ply her with drinks until she agreed to dinner the following Friday.

We exchanged numbers, I called her twice in the week leading up to the big night and then waited.

Foolishly, I mentioned the upcoming date to Jessie and Theo.

“Do her where the sun don’t shine until the sun shines,” Theo called out from his computer.

Theo was wearing a viking helmet and a cape. I assume this had to do with his World of Warcraft addiction.

“So… who would go out with a dork like you,” Jessie asked.

“A hot, classy lady,” I told her.

“Yah right,” she quipped.

She paused for a minute and asked, “Are you prepared?”

“What do you mean?”

“Guys do things now. Are you manscaped?”

Jessie proceeded to explain that in the modern world of dating, if I wanted action I would have to trim my pubic hair.

“Oh come on, that’s for fags and porn stars,” I protested.

“Hey, maybe some old bag your age won’t care. How old is she?”

“Maybe 25 or 30.”

“Yah,” she said. “You better manscape if you hope to get laid.”

I laughed her off and explained that I was real man, cut from the Magnum P.I. mold but later, when I got home I started worrying about.

So after my usual bourbon breakfast I made the worst decision of my life.

The scissor work went well enough, but when I got out the razor I ran into problems. The shaving cream wouldn’t stick. The hair clogged the blade. I got impatient and, well, I cut the shit out of my nutsack.

I called Jessie in a panic. My Boy Scout training never covered this.

“Hey, I told you. Just make sure she can see the bird and clean out the bushes. Why are you shaving the whole package?”

“I thought it would look better smooth.”

“Oh shit, you really are stupid. I should be the tutor.”

“Hey, this is bad. Blood is all over the bathroom.”

“How should I know how to patch your balls up?”

“I don’t know. You got me into this.”

“Get a fucking band aid or some gauze and duck tape.”

She hung up.

I tried to put a band aid on it but the sack kept changing size and shape. It was like trying to tie down a 5 pound block of Jello. The band aid wouldn’t hold.

I grabbed an old t-shirt and tried to apply direct pressure, laying very still on the bed. It would seem to stop bleeding and then start up again.

The phone rang. This time it was Theo.

“Uh, you know, why don’t you apply a tourniquet?” I could hear Jessie laughing in the back ground. He hung up.

Real fucking funny. Real fucking funny.

If I had duct tape, I would have used it. All I had was Scotch tape. So I ripped a square out of the t-shirt and began taping it to my balls. Success. It was holding.

However, my junk looked retarded with my nuts shaved, taped and all sorts of random hairs popping out of the shaft. Afraid of the razor, I broke out the tweezer and for a very painful 10 minutes I plucked my unit clean.

I picked up my date and gingerly walked her to the car. I was terrified the tape would fail and I’d bleed out during dinner so I was trying to walk with out moving my thighs. The affect was that I looked like a gay Frankenstein.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Oh yah, I’m doing good. How was your day?”

Dinner went well since I didn’t have to move. I was my usual 3-drink minimum charming self. I hobbled like a polio victim out of the restaurant and to the car.

When we got to her place, she turned in for a kiss in the car.

“This was fun,” she said. “I really like you.”

Heavy petting ensued, me with one hand up her shirt, the other gripping her thigh. Things were moving smoothly until she reached for my crotch.

The taped nuts! The tweezer induced aching rod! I swatted her hand away.

“Oh my Gawd,” she said. “What’s your problem.”

She broke our embrace and was staring out the passenger window.

“Sorry, it’s just. Well, it’s hard to explain. You’re super hot.”

She turned and smiled.

“I get it.” (No she didn’t)

“You’re shy.” (Not really)

“Let’s go upstairs and finish this right.” (No way in hell)

“Oh man, that’s… That’s a great offer. I can’t.”

Pissed, she turned her back and stared out the window again. Her hunched shoulders began to jump. I knew she was crying.

“Hey, look, don’t do that.”

“What, you said I’m hot. You think I’m a whore or something? I mean, it’s 2019. Girls can express their urges too.”

“No, no, no. I don’t think that. It’s not that at all. It’s complicated.”

She sat up right. I could tell her mind was leaping to conclusions.

“Do you have herpes or something? I’m clean. I don’t want that.”

“No, I don’t any STD’s. It’s just…”

She got a knowing look.

“I knew it. You’re gay. Jesus, you should have told me.”

“Fuck me, I’m not gay.”

“What gives? What’s wrong?”

I raced for an excuse. If I told her why, it was probably over. A good lie? Well, maybe another night, after I’d healed.

I’m normally great at lieing, but I panicked and shot out the first thing I could think of:

“I’m a chubby chaser.”

“What the fuck?!?!”

By her reaction, I might as well have told her I was into dead bodies or sheep.

“You’re fucking sick. I work on this body for 8 hours a week. I count carbs. I limit my alcohol. No fucking way.”

She got out of the car and screamed “Asshole!” while she slammed the door.

Smooth. Real smooth.

I waited for her to get to her front door which allowed me to see her turn and give me the finger.

“Nice work, Lazlo,” I told myself and drove away.

Women are funny and I’ll never really understand them.

Four days later she called me, drunk, at 2:30 in the morning and slurred:

“I won’t gain weight for you. But. But. But, I’ll put on a thick sweatshirt and puff out my cheeks if you’ll come over and fuck me.”

Of course I did.

The Suburban War Lord Prayer

“After all these years of believing in Jesus, After all these drugs, I thought I was Him.” — The Clash

The problem with religion these days is that all the world’s great minds have been abandoning God ever since Edison invented the light bulb. It’s not hard to see the connection.

In the beginning, there was darkness and shit stayed pretty dark until Edison stuck a filament in a vacuum and applied an electrical current. Voila. Man re-created God’s work.

Pretty soon thinking about the nature of God was left to dolts and simpletons. Seems like the meaner and less imaginative someone became, the more sway they had over the flock.

Regular people just stopped believing. They stopped thinking about God. They stopped trying to be love. The whole idea of thinking about God became embarrassing.

I still believe in God. I am, however, a man without a church. Basically, no one wants me (sniff, sniff).

That’s fine. It’s just me running around like a lone wolf in the wilderness and it’s probably how I was meant to be. (although I’m a total sucker for the communion.

So I believe in an all powerful God. I talk to him all the time. I try not to ask him for much. I tend to assume he’s a little too busy to worry about my petty problems.

I also firmly believe that he’s given us the greatest gift ever — each other. If men and women would just work together to help each other a little more, things would be a lot better here on Earth.

I think Jesus of Nazareth was probably a real person. I doubt he was literally the Son of God. That just doesn’t seem to be God’s way. Knocking up single girls and then leaving them with some other dude is, frankly, tacky. If you combed through the Gospels a few times you will see that Jesus is shockingly vague about whether or not he is the Son of God. He does get really explicit regarding people using the church to create wealth, judging others and generally being assholes.

Did Jesus rise from the dead? I don’t know. Does it even matter? Is Christianity suppose to revolve around Jesus rising from the dead and teaching rabbits how to poop out colored eggs or is Christianity about a guy from a messed up childhood trying to show the world a better way to live? He spent a lot more time talking about how to live than how he was going to die.

But I’m rambling now… This post is suppose to be about prayer.

In general, this is the official Suburban War Lord Prayer:

“Dear God, you are the greatest ever. You made everything. All I have I owe to you. Thank you.

I also want to thank you for my family and my friends.

God, please watch over XXXXX. They are awesome. If anything bad happens to XXXXX I’m going to be really pissed at you. You know they are a good person. This shit they have to deal with isn’t fair.

I would really like it if you could shift a lot of their worries and concerns over to me. I don’t have much going on right now so the extra work would actually be a nice break.

Yes, we both know I totally want to bang them but that doesn’t mean I’ve got bad intentions. Seriously, God, you KNOW I wanted to help them long before I wanted to get it on with them.

Just, throw me a bone here and watch over them extra close.

In fact, here’s the deal. Stop watching over me at all.

Any time you are spending watching over me, watch over XXXXX instead. You gotta watch over their family too. XXXXX has done a great job with them and I’d hate to see someone come along and screw that up.

We gotta a deal or what? If I’m off base here, make the bed float in the air (long frightening pause). Sweet. Thanks God.”

I typically say I’m sorry for all the crappy things I did during the day.

I don’t ever ask for anything for myself. I know I don’t deserve it.

I don’t ever ask for salvation because it’s either going to happen or not. And, again, I don’t deserve it. I’m sure I’ve got friends in Heaven and Hell.

Normally at the end when my mind starts wandering I’ve got to refocus for a grand finale about soldiers or orphans or soldier orphans.

Just for good measure I throw in the Lord’s Prayer cause that basically covers just about everything.

In a pinch, a simple “Thanks” probably covers it. He knows everything any way, right?