Archive for Personal Grooming

Things To NOT Do When You’re In a Hurry.

Posted in Human Stupidity with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 12, 2008 by Buck Frain

#1. Shave Your Balls.

 

I slept through my alarm this morning. Well, that’s not exactly true. I kept pushing snooze, getting another five minutes, pushing snooze getting another five minutes, pruning down the things I had to do before leaving the house with a semi-sleeping brain, pushing snooze, you get the idea. At some point I guess I must have pushed Off by mistake and just kept sleeping.

 

I awoke with a jolt. It was late. Not too late but I have a thing about being late – namely, I fucking hate it – so I was in a state of mild distress. I could still get to work on time but I was under pressure, my insufficiently oxygenated calculations on what had to be done and how much time I’d need were abysmally poor, I was looking down the barrel of no breakfast, possibly even no coffee. No coffee, as you’ll remember, means no shit and starting the day all bunged up – ah, it would be a cunt of a day!

 

I jumped into the shower and in retrospect could have cut down time by leaving certain personal grooming details for another day, but I didn’t. I decided to shave my ballbag. I first shaved the bag about six years ago. I tried it once to impress a girlfriend and just never went back. Yes, it did work, she was quite impressed, it was the rest of me that ruined things there in the end, but I digress. The freshly shaven bag is a wonderful thing. Gentlemen, if you’ve never tried it, I highly recommend* it. Unfortunately, the scrotum is not the easiest thing in the world to shave and today, with the pressure of lateness upon me, I was rushing. I nicked the bag.

 

Just a little nick. For a moment I wasn’t even sure if I’d cut or imagined it. Of course, that moment was very short-lived and followed by extreme panic as it began to bleed. It didn’t spurt or anything graphic like that, it just dripped with determined rapidity. Oh fuck! I’ve cut the bag! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I examined the wound, the warm water of the shower washing it clean. One tiny cut, less than a millimeter, not deep, just a layer of skin but right on a vein. The water was quite hot, the bleeding was quite consistent, the ballbag is nothing but thin skin covered with small veins, my heart was pumping, the shower looked like Psycho. The bag!!! Fuck it, I’ve cut the bag! And I’m late for work!

 

I turned the taps off and grabbed a towel and, carefully to avoid the balls, compressed the damaged piece of scrotum in the towel to stem the flow of blood. First aid training, you beauty! Compress the wound to stop the bleeding. I had to get it to stop quickly because I was going to be late for work so I stood in the bathroom like a hunchback, one hand compressing my slashed bag, the other doing a crap job of drying the rest of me with another towel. What a pathetic sight, I was so glad to live alone.

 

How could I have been so stupid? Why didn’t I leave it for another day? IDIOT!!! After about five minutes of compression I checked the bag. The bleeding started right back up exactly like before, a rapid dripping. Oh fuck! How to make it stop. I grabbed a bottle of liquid styptic out of the medicine cabinet. I use it on my face when I cut myself shaving, how is it I’ve never cut the bag before? I dabbed styptic on the bag. SWEET SHITTING FUCK MONSTER!!! Wow, I thought that shit stung my face. No result, still bleeding. I tried again. CUNTING ARSE PISS MOTHERFUCKER!!! Yep, that really does smart. Still bleeding. My bathroom was starting to look like a crime scene. Could I bleed to death from this? What a hideous way to die. Fuck, they’ll think it was some bizarre suicide. Humiliation even in death. I’ve GOT to get ready for work. Band aids. Yes! That will work. Applying band aids to a scrotum is no easy thing either. Who designed balls? Who fuckin’ did this? How fucking ridiculous…? Alright…calm down! The band aids wouldn’t stay on because the blood soaked straight through them. I was starting to worry that I might be losing a dangerous amount of blood. Also, how could I explain this? What would I tell The Wobblers? No no no, it was all too terrible to contemplate. I decided to bleed freely all over the bathroom floor while I rummaged through the contents of the medicine cabinet. Fabric Elastoplat. One large one and a packet of normal size fabric elastoplast. They’re better than the plastic band aids because they’ve got that hardcore adhesive and they’re fabric so they stretch. I opened the big one and about fifteen little ones, peeled all the backings off them and laid them sticky side up on the washing machine. Taking the big one in one hand, I wiped the scrote clean with the bloody towel and quickly stuck the big plaster over the wound. I pressed all the edges down – very careful to not press ball, just bag. Then before the blood could soak through, I reinforced it with the smaller plasters, building up a barrier against the bleeding, I would make it stop. Ha! Fuck you, circulatory system! I kept peeling and applying plasters until I was satisfied. I waited for a few minutes…it held. This would have to do.

 

Of course, my balls by this stage resembled a softball. As I got dressed I realised my cunning strategy may well attract a lot of attention. Not more attention than a bleeding crotch perhaps, but still it wasn’t a good look. What a choice: elephantitis balls or man-struation? Too late to worry now.  I left the house of horrors and caught the train. I kept glancing at myself fearing that the dressing wasn’t holding the blood flow. I was certain on a few occasions that I felt wetness in my pants. Terror! No, I was just Buster Gonad and His Unfeasibly Large Testicles.

 

The easter egg in my pants held. No-one commented about by abnormally huge balls, for which I was very thankful. I kept a very low profile at work, I kept all movement to a minimum. I worked and left. On removing the dressing when I got home I discovered the bleeding had stopped and I was fine. I cleaned the abbatoir that was my bathroom.

 

I will continue to shave my bag, despite today’s near-death experience. Not because I’m some sort of self-mutilator or adrenaline junkie, but because I like the feeling of a smooth scrote. But, I will only shave it when I have time to be leisurely about it. They’re the only balls I have and they deserve better than a hasty once-over with a fucking razor blade.

 

 

* What I don’t recommend is waxing. Tried it, don’t go there, it’s bad. Very, very bad.

 

 

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Whose Grass Are You Really Cutting?

Posted in Random Shit That Gives Me The Cunt with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on May 6, 2008 by Buck Frain

I worked late last night. Thankfully, I don’t work 9-5 all the time. I sometimes think the one thing that saves my sanity is that I don’t have a strict routine. Last night I finished up around midnight, got home by 1am. Of course, getting home at that time you don’t want to go to bed straight away, so I sat up and had a glass of wine and watched some TV, knowing I didn’t have to get up too early – all very civilised. 

My bedroom is being torn apart. Jesus, mother and fuck, wha…? I roll over too abrubtly and crack my eyebrow into the corner of the bedside table. ARSE!!! I’m awake. 

Still squinting one eye beneath a hot, smarting brow, I reach for my mobile to check the time. 8:30am? My middle aged neighbour is mowing his lawn, or more specifically the nature strip outside my fence AT 8:30am! BASTARD BASTARD BASTARD!!! Between him and me there’s a wooden fence and a glass sliding door – he might as well be mowing my fucking doona! What the fuck sort of person does this? Who the fuck are these people who have nothing better to do at 8:30am than mow their cunting lawn? This fucker is constantly mowing his lawn. He must have fucking mowed it twice a week every week since I moved in, it’s a miracle there’s any fucking grass left. I’m serious, the mad bastard’s out there every three or four days mowing! What the shitting pissflaps drives a person to obsess like this over a fucking shitty piece of lawn? 

It’s not a golf green. It’s a pissy triangle of lawn on a corner block and a nature strip outside his fence. With water restrictions he hasn’t been allowed to water the shit for years, but arse-rape me with a bag of carrots if the old ballbag’s not out there twice a fucking week trimming the cunting Jesus out of it. I think he must be retired, he’s always at home and only other thing he does is have screaming matches with his wife through the kitchen window. Now, that’s just fucking weird, and that always happens first thing in the morning too. It’s always the fucking same – with him in the garden and her indoors screaming at each other through the closed kitchen window – at least no-one gets hit. They’re Greek so I don’t understand a fucking word of it but I think that may be a blessing. Who the hell wants to know what two people, who’ve been married way too long, scream at each other about? But I do think about it – well, it’s not like I’ve got any choice when it wakes me up and sounds like they’re actually in my house. Part of me really wants to know what they scream about. Maybe I could help. 

Today it came to me. The lawn. It’s a metaphor. They’re an older couple and things have cooled down. She must have a big-ol’-retro-bush, she wants action, but he wants some new-school-pruned-punani. The manic mowing and the frustrated screaming – it’s all part of the same problem. What a thoroughly disgusting revelation – fuck you, brain! But, fuck, that’s what it is, I’m certain of it. The real question is whether they’re actually talking about it. Are they actually yelling at each other about it or do they shout about petty domestic trivialities unaware that the whole problem is a difference of aesthetic tastes in personal grooming and an inability to be sexually open with each other? That’d be a fucking tragedy, an ugly tragedy… but a tragedy nonetheless. If I could solve this I’d be able to get some fuckin’ sleep. But what the fuck could I realistically do? Leave subtle presents in their letter-box? Razors, wax strips, hair removal cream? That’s pretty fuckin’ scary. I’m so fucked off from sleep-deprivation I just want to run out into my yard and shriek at the top of my lungs: For fuck’s sake, SHAVE YOUR FUCKIN’ PUSSY AND LET ME GET SOME SLEEP!!!

Yeah…that could work. It could… On the other hand it could just get me murdered, there’s no explaining that shit away. BASTARD! WHY CAN’T YOU JUST FUCKIN MOW AFTER 10???