I needed a laugh today so I went back and found this post from 2010. I thought I'd repost it because right now in the present moment nothing is this funny. Enjoy...
For those of you eating breakfast….maybe you should stop before you read this. This could be vomit-inducing. Like serious, hold my hands over my mouth, run to the bathroom, shove my head in the toilet never giving a thought to what’s gone on in that toilet kind of vomit. This isn’t your average “I just threw up in my mouth a little.”
This is the first time ever I have wondered if my blogging has gone too far….meaning it’s the first time I actually thought of withholding something from this blog out of sheer humiliation. Then in a little email to Mrs. Fatass she proclaimed what I’m about to say is no worse than her hemorrhoids…..and here we are.
For those of you who are emotionally scarred forever when I’m done…email me…I’ll give you MF’s phone number so you can sue her skinny ass. This is so totally her fault.
Okay – let’s begin.
One normal, mundane night this week I noticed my cha-cha was just not comfy. I had that whole “something is wrong with my underwear” or “I’m getting a yeast infection” or “it’s time to shave again” feeling…you know the general feeling that something is “off” in the nether regions. Now if I was a guy, I’d shove my hands in my pants, readjust, and make sure everyone saw me do it and all would be well with the world again but I’m not and so – Houston – we have a problem.
We have a mystery on our hands. It’s time to go all Scooby Doo on my ass…errr…. I mean chacha. Soooo I quietly go to the bathroom (because let’s face it – if anyone knew I was in there I’d be followed. This mom hasn’t peed alone in 9 years)…and I grab the handheld mirror. This is where it gets dicey.
I do the spread eagle thing on the toilet. (Damn sitting on the lid is cold.) I get all close and personal with the chacha. My first thought is “JESUS MARY AND JOSEPH – that is fugly.” Seriously – what about how that looks turns anyone on? Okay – moving on. I do some digging. I mean not literal digging….oh geez. I fumble around and eureka! – I find a bump. Now to some of you who don’t know how to exaggerate properly this would be a tiny bump. For people like me well versed in being overly dramatic….it’s effing Mount Everest on my pooty. It’s big enough to ride a dirt bike over.
I very calmly put the mirror down. I contemplate googling “GINORMOUS MOUNTAIN ON VAGINA” to see what comes up. But I’m too scared. I then assume I have a tumor, it’s cancer and I’ll die tomorrow. Rambo will have to tell everyone I died because of something I found on my cooter. My obituary will have the word whootananny in it. Serves me right.
I tell Rambo I’m dying and that I need him to check out this ahem…problem. Don’t worry. I warned him properly. I said, “This is gonna be gross. You may never want to touch me again. I’m going to make you touch it.”
I think I forgot for a moment that this man has watched prisoners smear poop on the wall and pick corn out of it and eat it. A little mountain on a vagina can’t scare this guy.
Soooooo yah – we go look. He sees. That is not enough for me. I say, “No, no – you can’t just look. You have to feel how big it is. You have to be as disgusted as me. You have to freak out like me. Hurry.”
Aannnnddd he does. I see a little concern in his eyes. He says, “Have the doc check it at your annual Friday. You’re not freaking dying of cancer”.
Now mind you this whole time my head has been in my crotch. For the last five minutes I’ve been seeing nothing but giner and my neck is seriously cramping up at this point. So I decide it’s finally time to put the tumor-infested cooter away and get back to life. I look up. My eye is nearly poked out.
What? How did that happen? Poked out by what???
RAMBO and his um….you know…...PECKER.
There it is all happy and ahem…up.
What the holy hell just happened here? I’m spread eagle nearly in tears over teenage boys jumping dirt bikes over the hill on my vagina and planning my funeral and he’s turned on???????? Good thing I was already sitting down or I would have fallen down.
I asked, “Are you serious? What is THAT? This whole thing that just transpired turned you on?”
He just says – and not sheepishly I might add – he’s all puffed up and proud-like – “Yah, I saw AND touched your vagina. Can’t help it.”
For the love of Pete - PUT THAT THING AWAY would ya?
This is my nightmare. I’m humiliated beyond belief and he’s turned on.
I'm dying and he has a boner.
Oh, oh – and just so you all are aware that I’m not a leper and not dying and that everything is okay in twat land…..it was a pimple. Yes, stop laughing. I have heard of women having a pimple there but never experienced it. It’s gone today. The cooter will live another day.
Thank God – cuz apparently Rambo likes it.