Fat Privates

Fuck. You.

Hey. We’ve all seen women—and the occasional man—who have that really low hanging front pouch of fat that looks like a butt on the wrong side. I always want to go up to these folks at WalMart and ask what’s in there (an illegal immigrant? one of those quick-set pools?) and how they feel pale pink stretchy pants are helping the situation. I used to have a female teacher in high school who not only had the pouch, but also a receding hairline and a pretty substantial mustache. When she was at the board, we’d be all Where’s her butt? And then she’d turn around to explain something, and there it was! The whole thing was fascinating. But it isn’t so goddamned funny anymore now that I am starting to develop fat privates.

You know it’s impossible to get your ass clean when you can no longer reach it. That’s one of the only excuses I can see for owning a large dog. It is ridiculous to need a fucking garden hose with decent pressure in the bathroom, and I demand a recount. My ass has gotten so fat that in the event that I pass gas, which seems to be happening more and more in my old age, it takes a really long time to surface; one slipped day before yesterday, and it was from broccoli I had in 2008.

And you know another thing? My private parts doctor should not have to use scuba gear to find my cervix. But do you know how hard it is to exercise vagina flaps? What moves work that area exactly? And don’t get me started on the boobs. I specifically did NOT check pendulums on the order form, and you know how when skin rubs together all the time, those little nasty, boogery-looking skin tags form without permission? Yeah, well, I just cut those fuckers off when I find them. I don’t give a shit if rivulets of blood run down my belly all day. I am just not going to lift up my tits and have Morgan-Freeman-face up under there. Not going to have it.

I just don’t know. I could have the boobs lifted, and I know that there is even surgery to rejuvenate the vay-jay-jay. But slicing and stitches in the privates doesn’t sound so appealing, now, does it? I suppose I will just have to go chafing along. And I apologize in advance for those beans I ate last summer.