I Remember My "First Foray into Coochdom." I Got Lost, Drove Through Quickly, and Spilled My Junk All Over the Place. How I Ever Got Invited Back. . .

My regular waxer was not available and I just could not bear the wild, untamed amazon bush jungle that my, well, bush had become for another day.

So I came to you on my lunch hour, Anonymous Vietnamese Waxer Lady who works at the cheapie nail place. We were mere strangers before this afternoon, but after knowing you only an hour, I feel like I must point out the reasons why you rule.

When it was necessary to get on all fours to do the “taint” part of the wax, you applied the wax so delicately to my bunghole, then asked, in what I assumed were two of the only five English words you know, “Too hot?” I responded yes, it was too hot. And without hesitation, you blew on it to cool the hot wax. YOU BLEW ON MY BUNGHOLE, Vietnamese Waxer Lady. Do you know how special that is? Nobody blows on the bung. Nobody.

Yep, it is a lost art. My grandmother, that woman could blow on a bung like nobody's business. She could blow a bung, until , like air blowing past a bottle opening, a note rang out so clear and pure and true that it would shame the Three Tenors in comparison. Several times, she tried to pass her knowledge on to her grandchildren, but we were too busy playing Pong to pay her much mind. Consequently, no one in the family can blow a bung worth a damn, now.

Shame, that.

So, in honor of my grandmother, I'm spillin' a little of my 40 on the sidewalk. And I'm going to get my taint waxed and my ass blown. Whereever she is, I know my grandmother will know about it, and, hopefully, she'll smile.