I know November is supposed to be this big celebration of manhood. I know November is supposed to be the month you don’t shave. It’s supposed to be the month where men are men. They walk around in flannel shirts drinking maple syrup out of steins, projecting their barrel chests and clinching their butt cheeks tighter than a barnacles urethra. They are supposed to grow their beards out long and rape women in back alleys, leaving them with nothing but a torn pair of panties and a stack of Wendy’s napkins for clean up. That’s what being a man is. And I know that’s what November is supposed to be. And I have failed. I shaved. I shaved my pubes.
I just couldn’t do it. I’m not a coward, it’s just…I wasn’t build for No Shave November. See, I’m of Lebanese decent. And if I let my vajungle go untamed for any more than 6 or 7 hours, I got my very own Ferngully goin’ on downstairs and ain’t no oily exhaust monster gonna stop it when it gets that out of control. No comical fruit bats neither. Just dense tropical dick forest, swallowing all light before it can reach the forest floor.
My Mom always taught me that if the shrubbery grows longer than the blubbery, then you gotta trim it up. She’d say “Hoes don’t appreciate having to dig through mounds of curly bush just to get to the weed-whacker.” She always knew what to say to ease my worried mind. I remember Christmas ’96. All I wanted was a copy of Speed starring Sandy Bullock and Keanu “Morpheus” Reeves. I came down the stairs, happier than dog who just found a fresh throw pillow to hump, only to find that there was no Speed VHS in sight. I started to wail. Mom sat me down and said “Honey, it’s going to be okay. I couldn’t rightfully buy you the Speed VHS knowing full well that Sandy B. never even takes her gear off. Me and your father rented Speed last night to approve and we were stunned. Not only does she never sit and spin on Keanu’s face, but Dennis Hopper doesn’t even rape her when he has the chance.” She was right then, she was right two years later when Practical Magic came out, and she is right about No Shave November.
You can sit there on your high horse, with your beard and your maple syrup, tightly clenched butt cheeks, and call me a coward…a puzzy-pants…a traitor…Bene-dick Arnold…an Uncle Tom Arnold…but you can’t even fathom the emotional distress caused by stepping on your own pubies or having one grow so long that it curls up inside your dickhole like a jungle vine out of control. Ever seen Jumanji? Ever heard ominous tribal drumming emitting from your dong fro? Because that’s what it’s like. Only instead of thorny vines growing, it’s thick, twisted pubie hairs, and instead of that house that Robin
Williams raped Bonnie Hunt in, it’s your flaccid little peehole. Member when young Robin Williams’ dad fires David Alan Grier for being black? That’s how I feel right now, but you are Robin William’s dad, and I’m black.