Got Pubes In Pocket

Pubic hair; it’s everywhere.

Like in your pocket, what’s up with that?! You go to pull out some shrapnel and amongst the fluff and minute bits of paper there will be the odd pube or two.

Now some people might be disgusted by that but I’m not; I hold on to mine and even transfer it from one pair of pants to the next because you can never be too sure when you’ll come across someone selling something for 3 bucks five pubes.

I watched a TV show the other week about Kiwi couples getting married. Quite why you would want to make an already stressful exercise like organising a wedding by having some nosy fucken cameras poking about is beyond me, but there you go.

I refused to watch the first episode because it featured the couple that won a radio comp last year to have their wedding paid for, providing they performed the ceremony nude. Tissue box and hand lotion stuff, you would think. But no, the couple covered their bits with bits and had themselves a ‘partially nude’ wedding which is false fucking advertising really and only slightly erotic.

Anyhoo, this particular night I watched two virgins were getting hitched and the highlight of the episode was the bride to be getting a Brazilian in prep for the big night. Another quality TV show this, I tell you.

It was at that point my mind again turned to pubes and why the silly girl felt she had to remove hers?! Did it not occur to her that hubby hasn’t ever seen one so it’s not going to bother him one bit if it’s a massive bush. Now she has to keep the yard work up because he isn’t going to want anything less. Good one.

Then there was the sex scene on ‘The Pacific’ the other night and the guys smooth arse, which would be fine, if fellas waxed in the Forties. They didn’t but Steven Spielberg and Tom Hanks clearly didn’t think about that when they sat down and planned this out did they? Fantastically believable special effects, yes. Hairy arses, no.

Speaking of retro vagine, my mother had a perverse attitude to all things shaving, especially where my sister was concerned. Under peer pressure to do something about her hairy legs she asked my mother if she could start shaving them.

My mother’s response was that if my sister was to start shaving she could never stop so why even bother? Which was a bit rich really, coming from the woman who regularly made us both bathe in the same water she had used to shave hers in every other night. The hairy bitch.

And that would have been the end of the matter had I not taken pity on my younger sibling and let her use my disposable razors which was okay because I wasn’t actually growing any facial hair (and wouldn’t for roughly 10 years), despite my pretending to shave every day.

Now there’s a song out at the moment that is quite popular with the young folk, sung by one of those androgynous emo types who favour the kind of hair style that can best be described as having stuck ones head up a cows arse.

It’s a catchy number, I like it, but I’m pretty sure I wrote that song some 20 years before this kid stopped cutting himself to pinch my work. I realise they’re incredibly complex lyrics and I don’t actually have any proof that I came up with them but I seem to recall standing in front of my mirror, tennis racket plugged in and the amp turned up to ‘11’, rocking out to the very same four word anthem; Wataya want from me!

They were the only words I had mind you, because back then I had all the musical ability of a sock. Some would argue that some things haven’t changed despite my professing to be an okay guitar player but at least these days I don’t have to pretend with a cricket bat, or on the nights when I had left it outside by the back door, my diddle.

Okay so sometimes I still do the nude guitar in front of the missus. She hates it which is admittedly why I keep doing it. It’s not enjoyable for me, not in the slightest. Especially now that the ukulele I strummed back then is a full sized acoustic.

Maybe that’s how I end up with pubes in my pocket....?

I Know Where All The Hot Women Are Hiding...

Once upon a time, in a galaxy not so long ago, if a single fella wanted to pick up loose women in a public place without appearing seedy he headed down to the local New World on ‘singles night', grabbed a bunch of banana’s and placed them upside down in his trolley.

Or so said an article I read in the newspaper around that time, possibly written by somebody who watched one too many Sex in the City episodes, who really knows. Nobody quiet knew what night ‘singles night’ was, but from that point on every man with a penis was down at the supermarket circulating the place with all manner of phallic shaped fruit and veg pointing upwards out of their trolleys.

Naturally most of the women who had just nipped down for some tampons and a pack of Tim Tams freaked right out after being checked out, leered at and propositioned by men with what appeared to be a telegraph cucumber down their pants. Suddenly even the most mundane of tasks was now akin to being the only girl present at a sausage fest, so the girls abandoned the supermarkets in droves leaving all the horny men to wonder just where they all went.

Well I’ve just found out where: the Garden Centre.

I like garden centres because they remind me of the Vietnam bush and whenever I’m feeling nostalgic I like to don the khakis and head down to Palmers. At first the staff there were quite concerned with my making camp amongst the perennials and jumping out at Asian shoppers, but we have now reached a compromise; I promise to conduct only recon missions whilst amongst the foliage and they don’t douse me in that freaky naughty Agent Orange like bug spray they used to subdue me the first time.

They are a lot of myths about the Vietnam bush. Thanks to Hollywood the general perception is that the place was full of walking tracks and only knee high shrubs. Not so. To fully understand how thick the shit was you would first have to imagine the bushiest minge you’ve been, or are with. Now imagine the room you’re sitting in right now full, from ceiling to floor, with that retro bush and you’re on the right track....

On my last visit to Palmers I thought I was hallucinating, that maybe I hadn’t rinsed out my fatigues after the defoliant dousing incident, because the place was wall to wall totty.

Luckily I had the blublockers on because I was able to eyeball most, if not all of them without the missus noticing. I find the best way to do this is to stand looking and discussing at something in the foreground whilst in a position that allows you to actually perv at the lovely pair of bulbs in the background. Classic move that.

Afterwards I gave it some thought it dawned on me just why young, attractive women are flocking to garden centres in droves - it’s their maternal instinct kicking in. All chicks have one; it’s only the way they channel it that differs. For the majority its kids, for some it’s pets and for others it’s gardening, hence the turnout in Palmers, which suddenly seems appropriately named, doesn’t it?

So forget about prowling the supermarket aisles for loose women fellas, tuck one of those upturned bananas down your tweeds and get down to your local garden centre because it’s getting hot and moist down there, just like a room full of thick pubes.

Check out her seedlings....humina, humina.