Heading south of the border with a Brazilian bikini waxer

Bush Trimming / Horticultural Bikini Wax by Banksy

Bush Trimming / Horticultural Bikini Wax by Banksy (Photo credit: dullhunk)

I haven’t been to many book launches but, if they’re all like the one I checked out the other night, I may have to turn it into a habit.  I was there to support a friend, a man whose work reflects a soul of genuine depth.  While listening to him discuss writing as an act of healing, I heard the word, “Pussy,” spoken by a woman standing less than a body length behind me.  There, she said it again.

She wasn’t questioning anybody’s courage or manhood.   Nor was she using the word to define women as exclusively sexual beings.  She said it, casual as hell, the word rolling free of her lips with an accent that softened it into “Poosie,” real friendly-like.  And that’s how she meant it.

This woman wouldn’t be caught dead discussing “Vaginas” the way most people do, with all the humanity of a police report.  “The individual, my husband, commenced to circle the vaginal area for a marital obligation when the perpetrator’s crucifix became ensnared in the pubic hair of the victim, myself, which has yet to grow back, your honor.”

This fascinating, olive-skinned temptress with a Portuguese accent was just talking Business, the life of a Brazilian bikini waxer, but making it sound like much more than a commercial transaction.  In her skilled hands, the practice became a mix of hygiene, esthetics, erotica, emotional therapy, and friendship.  She warned the women at her table, “You go to a Russian waxer, your poosie, she takes a beating.”

I continued listening, chewing my guacamole-topped turkey dog when I felt a hair latch onto  the middle of my tongue.  My immune system’s powerful front line defenders, thumb and forefinger, encircled it and, no more than two gagging noises later, managed to fish out the clever invader. Brazil took it as a wry comment and flashed me a smile.  A samba began to roll around inside my head.

She was sexy as hell and pretty damned fascinating but her smile was in the wattage range you use to invite new clients more than romantic connections.  And being slow-witted in the romance department anyway, I rarely figure out when a woman’s coming on to me until the moment I tumble out of the bed, the hammock, or the leather mask.  She could drop a roofie into her own drink and I wouldn’t know it.  Still, at the risk of alienating my new friend, I let her know that empowering strangers to rip the hair from my brows, pecs, or scrotum ain’t never gonna be my idea of a party.

Any woman willing to sprinkle pussy into a conversation sure as hell wasn’t going to be put off by a little frankness.  So we had a friendly chat.

English: Different pubic hair styles. The term...

She wrote a book called “Confessions of a Brazilian Bikini Waxer.”  Attesting to her commercial savvy, she’s made it available in several languages including one version–resembling American sign language–where letters and words are not written but shaped into the freshly waxed pudenda of her clientele.  The rainforest should have it so good.

She didn’t invent the bush wax but, by force of personality and patent law, has come to dominate the field.  The Bikini Wax is now her exclusive intellectual property.  She gets a royalty on every hair torn from your genitalia, double on fashioning the letter “O” into your crotch.  And that’s how she’s on track to become the richest woman in South America.  Resettling in the US, she extended her control of the market.  Her legal representatives wrote a mass warning to rogue waxers threatening them with violations of US Copyright law if they removed one pubic hair without her express written consent.  Anyone who does a self wax or inadvertently touches herself below the waist can’t announce it publicly without paying a license fee.

Happy grooming, y’all.


The candidates’ dogs compare campaign notes.

From the Desk of Bo Obama

Bo in March 2010

Greetings from Pennsylvania Avenue via canine ESP.

How perfect is life at the White House? I’ve got a loving family, Universal Pet Insurance, and a presidential lap where I can curl up any time.  The best part of any evening is when the President gathers us around the fireplace and puts me into a happy coma by reading aloud from John Maynard Keynes.

I’ve even got my own Secret Service agent.  When he bites into the g-string he brought back from Cartagena, plays tug of war with me, and calls me filthy puta, I’m in doggie heaven.

My favorite time on the Presidential campaign trail has been my proximity to campaign fundraisers.  What dog worth his dew claws wouldn’t want to drink in the scent of George Clooney?  (Single malt scotch and English Leather).

When Oprah Winfrey scooped up my eye crud, we formed a forever mucosal bond.  And, as Dog is my witness, I saw a Seal Team 6 guy let Gwyneth Paltrow chew on a hunk of what he swore was Osama Bin Laden‘s ear lobe.  Former House Speaker, Nancy Pelosi, sported the unforgettable bouquet of vaginal prolapse which she skillfully masked by spilling a carne asada taco on her lap.  I took it as a meat-filled omen that Barack Obama is a lock to be re-elected President.

From the inflamed bowels of Heaven, Yo.  Seamus Romney speaks!

Irish Setter

What’s it like on this side of the Rainbow Bridge?  As the kids like to say, things ain’t bad up in this bitch.  Ain’t no station wagons, crates, or politicians of any kind up here.

So let me address what’s on everybody’s mind:  my episode on the road with the Romneys.  Riding First-Class Crate on the roof of a station wagon from Boston to Toronto. That ain’t never gonna be my idea of fun.  But it was a whole lot rougher on the servants. They had to run alongside the car all the way to Ontario.

That little trip inspired my pet name for Mitt:  Sandusky.

Will the Romneys ever be as much fun as the Obamas?  Sure if you like being jarred awake in the middle of the night for a baptism in a Jewish cemetery.  But real fun?  Getting to fetch or play tug of war?  Never.  High times for Mitt Romney meant chasing after me and holding a dust pan under my tail while I pretended to crap in peace.

Things weren’t all bad at the Governor’s mansion.  Ann Romney once let Rafalca, her dressage horse, kick me in the head.  At least she asked.

What about Romney Care?  Lemme lay out my first-hand experience with it.   The minute the Governor’s son, Ben, graduated from medical school he got me wrecked on Cuervo jello shots and, just for laughs, took out my spleen.

Still, don’t you go selling Mitt Romney’s campaign short.  For one thing, Democrats don’t have a monopoly on celebrity endorsers.  Republican fundraising events showed off a whole lotta conservative glitz their own damn selves.  Between Ted Nugent, Jon Voigt, and Bo Derek, you’ve got some real past-your-prime beef.  They LFAO-ed at a Scottsdale fundraising party when a Secret Service dog sniffed out half an Oxy in Rush Limbaugh’s crocs.

Well, Bo, if you’re asking for my campaign prediction, I’m gonna have to burst your bubble.  Mitt Romney is gonna win the election in a walk.  If they had an American Idol style sing-off of soul classics, Mitt would claim the crown for “Deafen Me Now.”  But, the Mitt’s  got the advantage where it counts most:  in serious money.  How serious?  I saw Karl Rove‘s dog bury $3.7 million in the hillside behind the house.