So I've been dating whole groups of these short bleach-blondes lately. Mostly from Appalachia.
I call them "frosted squaties."
They hang out in packs, or "scrums," to use the scientific nomenclature.
And they've divided themselves into two warring clans, which is awful. It would be funny if it weren't so bloody.
Anyhow, their big beef with each other is over their central philosophies.
Scrum One has as their central belief the tenet that ... my best feature is my gossamer-soft body hair. Which I can see--they have a point, I do have a gorgeous, downy, near-invisible spider-webbish coating, which you can see if it's a dewy morning.
Now the problem is that their sworn enemies, Scrum Two, led by a particularly vicious, vindictive frosted squatie named Sausagella, they have as their "raison d'etra" the conviction that my best quality is my ... vestigial tail. Which again, point taken. It's lovely.
So yeah. You see the problem. Never the twain shall meet. Gossamer-soft body hair versus vestigal tail -- you're talking Cain and Abel, the Hutus and the Tutsis, peanut butter and jelly, Jake and the Fatman. Eternal war.
Now me personally ... I happen to believe that my best quality is my world-class Hamburglar drinking glass collection. But what do I know, right? I'm only the hottest thing any of these little hoompuses will ever know between the sheets.
Or between the second and third acts of an opera. Because who knows when I'll strike, right?!
So yeah. I'm about sick of them all anyway. They've turned out to be nothing but gossips and gold diggers.
See, they got wind, through the FS grapevine and all their little Internet chatboards ("peep! peep! peep!") that I just finished writing a men's empowerment book, and they all smell money. So they're clamoring for my attention worse than usual.
If you're curious, it's called ... "Yonis, Unitards, and You: Using Yoga to Unleash the Power of Each Man's Ghost Vagina."
Yeah. I'm pretty excited. I'm looking for a publisher.
Though at this point, I'd settle for a typewriter. It's currently scrawled in crayon on the backs of about 70 cereal boxes in my old apartment.
And I don't even live there anymore. I'm what you'd call a beach bum.
And I don't mean I like volleyball and boogie boards. I mean I sleep in the sand, and fight seagulls for hot-dog buns for sustenance.
So yeah. That's that.
* Credit for the term "Frosted Squaties" goes entirely to Jenni Lamb, a very funny writer / actor / improviser friend of mine and her husband Josh Hetherington, who vacationed in Southern Ohio about 3 years back and invented this phrase for short, round, bleach-blonde hill chicks. She said I could have the term for stand-up and other comedic purposes, which I gladly took her up on.
