<<<<<<<I’m re-posting this one, as it happened over Christmas, but it’s one of my all-time favorite stories, and it’s such a funny memory. I think you will enjoy, assuming you like pubes humor.
If you don’t like humor about pubes, you probably shouldn’t be reading this blog anyway…
Yes, I realize that brilliant graphic above and the title of this post isn’t how you spell “ambushed.” I was trying to give you a hint as to what this blog post would be about, and I wanted to do it creatively, because I’m awesome that way.
Hopefully you can look past the spelling and look to the hilarity of the story. You should, because the story is amaze-balls.
And before we go any further, how awesome is my drawing for this one? I did it on Paint and it only took me an hour. I’m so talented.
Every year, Matt and I go to Mexico to celebrate the Christmas holiday. By “celebrate” we mean we lay in the sun all day, drink fruity drinks, and occasionally look at each other and say “Oh crap, its Christmas! I totally forgot!”
We don’t go to Mexico because we don’t like Christmas; we just don’t like cold weather, or obligatory functions, or any kind of holiday that requires purchasing gifts. (If you have a job and/or a bank account, you can buy yourself a gift. I’m not waiting in line to get you a gift card to Starbucks. FYI.)
This year was no different and we spent the holidays lounging on the beach, silently passing judgment on people as they walked by. (Sometimes not so silently, depending on the quantity and potency of the cocktails.)
We don’t do this to be mean, but mostly just to entertain ourselves, and because there are some seriously freaky people in this world…or at least in Puerto Vallarta over the holidays.
A few days ago I was scanning my surroundings, just taking in the scenery. Okay, so what I was really doing was looking around for the waiter on the beach to check on the status of my refill of my Bahama mama drink.
He was nowhere to be found (probably/hopefully because he was making me another drink). Instead of finding the waiter, I found something far better.
A young woman, probably in her early 20s, was walking up the beach from the water. She was skinny and wearing a tiny bikini. As I looked at her, I noticed something on her crotch area. Immediately, I suspected she somehow got seaweed caught on her leg while she was in the ocean.
Because I’m a super caring person (and because I wanted to check on my drink status), I decided to get up further investigate. I figured if she had seaweed on her lady parts, she would probably want to know so she could remove it. It’s the least I could do.
Oh god, how I wish it was seaweed on the inner parts of her legs. If only….
As I approached, I realized it wasn’t seaweed, but rather an explosion of pubic hair coming out of her bikini and crawling down her legs.
I say it was crawling because I swear it was alive and quite mobile. I saw it swaying in the wind and immediately imagined what it would look like when she was in the water.
The movement of it would most likely be confused by a snorkeling 10 year old as a different kind of seaweed.
It looked like it was busting out of her bikini bottom, as if it was trying to escape the constraints of her tiny cotton suit. I could almost hear it gasping for air, or at least for a good shampoo and conditioner.
Naturally, I alerted my husband immediately. I feel like this is one of those obligations a wife has to her husband.
In addition to honoring and cherishing, blah blah blah, I think there’s something in the vows about promising to alert your husband at the sighting of out of control bush at a beach.
If it isn’t in the vows, it should be, because that’s the kind of stuff that can break up a marriage otherwise. I’m a caring wife that way.
Matt’s reaction was similar to mine. He was horrified and happy, all at the same time. We were both completely intrigued and decided to try to get a closer look. Who was this creature who felt so uninhibited as to display her female whiskers.
Also, we wanted to make sure we took our camera to capture a photo of this remarkable sighting. After all, I’m a journalist and this was just the kind of investigation you, my readers, depend upon.
I failed. Just FYI so you don’t get all excited about seeing a photo of an untamed bush, and then you get disappointed when you don’t find it. Part of you knew I would fail because I’m not really that great of a journalist, and I think posting photos of a stranger’s bush might put my blog into a porn category.
I’m not ready for that kind of traffic yet, so for now, you’re going to have to use your imagination. Plus, this isn’t that kind of blog. I try to keep it classy, people.
As we got closer to her, we confirmed what we already knew. It was an overgrown forest between her legs.
No, it wasn’t a forest, it was a goddamn jungle. Perhaps she wasn’t capable of trimming or removing it because it was just too strong…like maybe it was the Hulk Hogan of pubic hair. I wondered if it wore a bandanna and called everyone “brother.”
Please note the image is an artist rendering. It’s not an actual photo.
I could only imagine what kind of sheers would be needed to slay that dragon down south. Perhaps that’s why it was so out of control. No razor could tame it.
No blade would step up to the task. What she needed was Arthur from Disney’s beloved “The Sword in the Stone.” Perhaps he was the only thing strong enough to tame that mane.
*Of note: Arthur is also known in the movie as “Wart” which poses an interesting question about whether the massive bush was hiding something more serious…like herpes. It also demonstrates my uncanny knowledge of Disney movies and characters.
Perhaps the only thing that would knock out a mass of hair that size would be a fire. But then again, if she used that method, she would have a burning bush, and I don’t think that’s what Moses was talking about in the Bible. However, he was in the dessert sand, so perhaps there’s some truth to this theory…
We approached cautiously, careful not to alarm it. I couldn’t help but say “It looks like she has two dead animals plastered to the sides of her legs.”
“I bet two dead animals would smell better than what she’s got going on down there,” was my humble husband’s response. I suspect he wasn’t wrong.
We followed her flowing fringe until “Miss Bush” arrived at her destination. Unfortunately, it was not the salon for a wax. Rather, she met up with her “friends” who were lounging on chairs on the beach. The reason I use the term “friends” so loosely is because anyone who lets another person go out in public with pubic hair like that, is no friend at all.
But her friends got what they deserved, because she began talking to them while continuing to stand…while they continued to lounge in their chairs. This provided a front row viewing of the lady mustache she was sporting. (I just made up that term “lady mustache.” Let’s make that a thing.)
It was obvious by their faces that her friends were aware of the vagina wig. (There’s another one! “Vagina wig” is pure gold! I can’t stop with creating these slang terms!)
But funnier than the faces of her friends staring down the barrel of her beard, was the face of the clearly traumatized 14 year old boy standing nearby. I’m completely serious.
Matt and I had to stifle our laughter at that poor, tortured soul who was horrified and wanted to look away, but couldn’t find the strength to turn away from the lady sideburns.
(That’s it. I’m going on the road with this act and all the names I’m making up for a woman’s bush.)
I wanted to comfort the poor lass, and tell him not all women’s genitalia looked like the base player from Guns ‘N’ Roses. (Slash may have been an ugly dude, but he knew how to stroke that guitar.)
I also wanted to give him this month’s edition of Playboy to show him what classy pubic hair look like, but Matt left it on the plane for an uncomfortable stewardess to find. (He finds this prank hilarious. He also likes to whip it out in the middle of the flight and make the person next to him extremely uncomfortable. And I’m talking about whipping out the Playboy magazine, not something else, you perv.)
It was at that point that we decided to go back to our lounge chairs and stop staring at the freak show of frizz. It was starting to look angry and I swear that thing waved at me as we walked by.
We returned to our lounge chairs stunned and scarred from what we just viewed. We knew we would never be the same, and for as long as we lived, the Mexico Christmas vacation of 2012 would forever be known to us simply as “Bushapalooza.” We’re having t-shirts made.