Russian Roulette

Now I'm not one to endorse stereotypes, but Russian women? They love pussy.

Remember Tatou? They were all over each other. And men out there, you wouldn't know this, but every esthetician I've ever been to has been Russian for some reason. I don't know if waxing limbs is something momma teaches you out there but damn those women are skilled.

I go to the same woman to take care of my hoo ha. To get the 'ol bush trimmed. Men probably think that going to get the pubic hairs yanked from their root off your pussy is a nice little Saturday experience. Like we show up, there's 'essential oils' wafting in the air, you're walking around in a terry cloth robe, chattin' with the other ladies in the salon. All very nice, all very painless. Maybe like, when the wax gets poured, my Russian is all soothing tones and gives you a little freebie massage and poof! My bush just magically disappears. Maybe little kittens lick the wax remnants off. I dunno what you think goes on.

Well let me just tell ya. It bears no fucking resemblance to that scenario. And the waxing? It hurts like fuck. The things we do for you.

And oh my Russian. My Russian. While she is good, damn that girl is moody. I never know which Svetlana I'm gonna get. And this is an important relationship,which, like the pussy, needs to be maintained. You're in the doggy position for half your conversation for fucks sake. You are at her total mercy.

Last time I was in she was borderline abusive to me.
"You no have boyfriend now no? Hair is too long. How come you let it get so long? What is wrong with you? You not like the sex? You Lesbninan? RRRRRRRIP. Legs in air!!!! RRRRRIP."

So I figure the last thing I need on a Saturday is this shit, so I try and put an end to the relationship and sign myself up for laser hair removal. And I show up for my first session, and I'm all psyched 'cause there's no rrrrrip sounds going through my head. And I get called into the 'therapy room' and goddamn, the 'hair removal technician' is Russian. And fuck is she angry. And you just have to put up with it. At their total mercy.

You know when you're at a restaurant or some other service industry you wouldn't pu up with shit from the waiter. Or your hairdresser. The waxer? Can't say nothing. And what woman would? Let's be honest, bitch is pointing a laser at my fucking pussy!

Legs up? Yes 'mam.

Weapons of Mass Digust

I have a theory. People living in the city are starting to act a little crazy. A little animalistic. But, perhaps, that's because when people live in close, tight contained spaces like animals, they're gonna start to behave like animals.

The tube is a like a little micro-cosm for this sorta behaviour. We're jammed in there like little rats in plastic lab tunnels. However, I would like to point out, we are not rats. What is it with some people. They get in the tube and they treat it like it's their own personal space. So I'm sitting down on a Saturday, reading my paper, and Joe Sweaty Man gets in the carriage and starts doing stretches. He's doing lunges in front of me. And he is wearing short shorts mind you. And then he turns around, butt to my face, and bends over to touch his toes. This guy is so close I have the vein imprint marks from his ball sack on my forehead. He's using the bars and hanging upside down like a fucking monkey.

I get it on some level. You don't have a lot of time, you gotta do some stretching during your commute. Stretching - fine. Ball sack in my face - not fine. Not human behaviour.

People are doing some very private things very publicly in the city. The other morning on the way to work, girl sitting accross from me is brushing her hair. Her very long, stringy-ass hair. With one of those big fucking brushes the size of canoe paddles. And she's brushing and I can't help watching her. And then you know what she does? She looks at her paddle, and she rips out all of her hair from the brush, gathers it into a ball, and throws it on the carriage floor. And this giant hairball is dancing around now like a fucking tumbleweed of dead human cells. Brushing? Fine. Your fucking hairballs? Not fine.

And you know what? These aren't crazy people. These are normal people acting like animals. And where do we draw the line? What can I like change my tampon on the tube now? Is that okay? When it's been eight hours it's time to change up. Here's a novel idea - why doesn't Ken Livingstone install tampon receptacles in every tube carriage. But I figure even the way it's going now, people would dispense with the dispensers and throw those tampons right onto the platforms between stops like little bloody bombs. It's all ready a minefield of human sweat, hair, breath, skin cells and ball sacks. I can see it now: guy arrives into the office, is at the coffee station pouring a cuppa. Co-worker comes in and says "Oh hey Joe, leeeetle embarrassing, but you got a tampon stuck to your back. Sugar?"

Parents Gone Drunk

So my Dad's 60th Birthday party is coming up and I am gonna go to this thing better equipped than 007 in a Russian space lab during the Cold War. That's right - I've got my digital camera/video and am hooked for sound. You know why? Because I am going to be there to capture those all important moments when the 'rents lose all composure and are drunkity drunk drunk.

It could just be my parents, but the amount of shit that comes out these people's mouths is priceless. One moment you're discussing patio furniture, dip recipes and obituaries, and the next they're telling you they have no idea how you ended up the only one in the family with brown eyes and 'isn't that funny?'. Isn't it.

And it all happens so fast. You have to be ready - finger on the trigger. You must get that shit on tape. The next day they'll be talking doilies and bar-b-ques again it'll be like it never happened.

And parents don't drink like your average college student. They're sneaky about it man. They have a way of sipping without appearing to have guzzled. It is a honed technique. There's also the drive by you must be ready for. You know, when a parent breezes past you at a party and whispers something god awful and cringeworthy in your ear like 'You know Ted Bundy just had an affair with the pool man who is dating your aunt Sheila's little friend with just the one arm and one leg. Poor thing.' It's drive by - you could be in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation when they drop this bomb in your ear and you just have to pretend like they just asked you to refill the chip bowl.

'Girls Gone Wild'? Shit. That has nothing on the hilarity ensues when Parents Get Drunk. The beautiful moments are the ones when they make The Drunk Soliloquay. So be ready for it. Here's some hints: they usually start off with either:

"You know if I was Mr/Mrs X, I wouldn't be so quick to..."

or

"You know your father/mother..."

or

"You know that you're adopted right?"


Get this shit on tape because when you're getting shit on for being irresponsible, or late, or because you have too much debt you have the comeback. Two words: Dad's Sixtieth.