Economic hardship my ass

There are few things more satisfying than exposing my bare, hairy ass to a beautiful woman. So, when I dropped my pants slightly to take a shot in the "hip" last week, I felt like I was there in all my glory--until the fiery spike of death made contact with my skin and brought out sweat beads on my head.

Today, for some odd reason, that's what I want to blog about.

I opened my word processor and typed out a few paragraphs about the recession and how to survive in dwindling economic times. Then I got bored and almost choked to death on my own sleepy drool.

Then I hit backspace, and in the title bar I wrote: "The 7 things that women just need to stop saying" and was all ready to go with that idea (complete with the "I don't usually do this" or "I'm mostly friends with guys"), and it made my misogyny meter move from blue to orange and I had to stop because I am trying to be better about that with this blog. Feminism be damned.

Again I hit backspace and I immediately went to a time and place where I was most happy and the only thing I could think of was the doctor's office last week, where I exposed the upper portion of my ass to the cute nurse. Then I began to wonder just how much of my ass I exposed. I mean, I can clearly remember what it looked like in front. My pant line remained in the same place there. But I can't wrap my mind around just how far I allowed my pants to drop in the back.

Did I expose some crack? Was it enough for her to see how hairy my ass really is? Was she immediately turned on or instantly repulsed by my wiry hips?

I do know that I was clean. I remember that much because I took a shower before visiting the doctor. So I'm fairly confident that my ass did indeed smell like a meadow that day and wasn't grimey sweaty or greasy.

Now I am trying to embrace a reality that encompasses the fact that I let some strange nurse witch doctor ram a sharp metal spike into my hip. I remember clearly the band aid she put there when she was done and how agonizing the pain of taking it off was later. Don't they issue bics at the Doctor's offices anybody? Would it have been too much trouble for her to take a tiny razor to my hip before applying the venom of death?

What does my ass have to do with my lungs anyway? And what does it matter WHERE they put that shit? Is there something more effective about injecting an antibiotic into your ass than into your arm?

Where else can you go that you would have to drop your pants to get some service? I mean, if I am standing in line at Walmart, if I drop my pants would they open a new register for me? Or if I am at Dairy Queen eating an ice cream cone, and decided to drop my pants at the register, would they smear ice cream on my ass? If I go to my mechanic and tell them that my muffler is making my car sound like an Indie 500 mud dogging tractor pulling big rig, would their response be "Hey man, drop them pants and lets get a look at that ass"?

When I finally snap out of my day dream and stop asking myself these non-sensical questions, I somehow feel complete. Whole. I am me again.

Yes, I have been mistaken for sasquatch. Yes, when I wipe I have to take extra care not to have the toilet paper get all mangled up in there. No, I will not put my ass out on exhibit in a musuem. And yes, if you are :

1. Female
2. Beautiful

I do get incredible satisfaction from showing you my ass.

So I say again, in these tough economic times, when gold-digging bitches are struggling to find men to take care of them, I say unto you:

Know ye this. When thy lungs be infected, make sure your ass is meadowy and lemon scented. Take a bic with you. And smile.