If I Could Lick My Own Crotch

OK, let’s get the obvious out of the way.

I’m a dude

I have a wee wee. (At least, that’s what the wife calls it for some reason.)

If I had the backbone of my puppy and could reach my “Johnson,” well…you better believe my life would be completely different than today.

Oh sure, dudes talk about it. Ladies bust other guy’s balls saying they wish guys could do it. But when you have a puppy, and you see that little rat-bastard go to town on himself…I don’t care what kind of guy you are, you take a brief moment to just embrace the thought, “what if I could participate in that holy batch of awesomeness?”

Well, I took more than just a brief moment and jotted down the top 10 things I’d do if I could lick my own crotch.

Number 10

I would have been in diapers for 1 day and 1 day only. Which…probably would have made my parents rich for having the first kid ever that could bathe his own junk and poop in a toilet.

Number 9

Go to yoga and drop an epic shock-n-awe campaign on all the ladies as I bundled myself up all pretzel-like. OK…maybe 90% of the class would run out screaming and throwing up, but the other 10% of you…well, you know who you are and you know you’d totally watch.

Number 8

Well…I’d lick my own crotch. On Letterman. On The View. On The Today Show. And, on Oprah. Actually, I’d only do it on Oprah if Tom Cruise would jump on her couch afterwards in joy and she agreed to give away “Why Is Daddy Crying” bumper stickers under people’s chairs.

Number 7

I’d self-finance myself to appear at every talk Sarah Palin gave just so I could attend the Q & A at the end and start licking my own crotch in front of her. Plus, I’m sure her husband would be my biggest fan because we all know that sack of dumbass hasn’t had his crotch licked since his last hunting trip. Let’s move on shall we?

Number 6

I’d give classes on how to lick one’s own crotch, charging $39.99 for the first hour, resurrect Billy Mays, then hire him to sell them for me on street corners.

Number 5

I’d sell a logo of myself licking my own crotch to the Tea Party to use as their logo.

Number 4

I’d probably look like George Burns by the time I’m 40 years old. Actually, now that I think about it…his cigars did look an awful-lot like…

Number 3

Oh wait…my mom reads this blog. Mom!!!! STOP READING NOW MOM!!!! GO WATCH CIS OR SOMETHING!!!!

Number 2

I’d go on American Idol and do a rare but unique number where I have Mike Tyson pour sugar on me while I lick my own crotch and hum along to Def Leppard.

And now…the Number 1 thing I’d do if I could lick my own crotch like my disgusting little puppy can?

I’d never do any of the other 9 things on this list and simply spend my days in my basement licking my own crotch.

(Side note...I just read this blog post to the wifey before posting it and this is what she said Click Here.)



The Art of Manscaping

So my son gave me my first bitch-slap on Sunday. Father’s Day of all days!

Let me set the scene for you kids. I’m on a lawn chair, beer in hand, slight buzz, warm day, surrounded by a half-dozen or so friends at the pool they belong-to, grilling and having a damn good night.

Just as we’re all getting along famously, the boy rolls onto the scene. Sliding into the middle of the group like Tom Cruise in Risky Business, he takes over.

“So, hey. I’ve got something for ya!”

All the adults stop, turn and look at my little red-headed, gap-toothed freak son.

“Before we came to the pool, my dad had my mom shave his back and it was disgusting!!!”

Five years ago I would have immediately texted “my guy” and had the boy “taken care of” within five minutes.

All I could do was laugh. The little bastard had busted my balls in full display and he was right. My wife had totally manscaped my back a mere hour ago.

But three things happened with that unplanned announcement.

1)  I learned that my son has now entered into the phase to where he thinks he can bust my balls and not get payback.

2)  I am a seasoned “Payback” professional and he will cry!

3)  Manscaping is running rampant and women hate to be in charge of doing it!

The immediate response from the ladies in this awesome gathering of drinking folk was unanimous – “oh I feel your pain my dear! I hate having to shave my husband’s back!”

OK, so shaving your husband’s back isn’t quit the dream you pictured when that engagement ring was slipped onto the finger. I can’t apologize for it.

If I could pull a few favors with the man upstairs in the hopes hair would graciously NOT grow in areas we can’t reach, then I’d do it! But we guys are just hairy bastards.

So, it’s one of two things:

1)  Shave our back

2)  Let it grow and embrace the way the wind flows across our back like a Midwestern plain

But then there’s a secondary level to this manscaping dilemma.

Our wives already “own” us. So, why would they care if we’re walking around like Big Foot on payday? It doesn’t hurt them one damn bit.

Look, I’m definitely not a arm, chest, leg shaving dude. Not by any stretch. The day I start getting paid thousands of dollars to complete triathlons, then I’ll shave it down body-wide. Until then, I’m shaving in all the right areas.

I just want to be presentable. I don’t want to fight windstorms from lifting me up and carrying me away by my back-hair wings. I don’t want my cat to confuse me as a “fuck buddy” when I’m laying on my stomach.

So I beg you ladies…on behalf Guys Who Grow Back Hair, Some A Lot, Some A Little, Organization…know we love you, bite the bullet, and please – give us a shave!