My crotch is sore.
No, it’s nothing you’re thinking of, perverts, for a good Christian never is sore from sin. Though I’ve never experienced it, I’ve been told that sin pain involves things like all-night next-day hangovers; bright-red swollen mucus membranes from fists and silicone shaped idolatry; rug burns on your knees from stained rental-property carpet; beard-burns on your face from similar rental property you found in the bar’s dark corners; bank-account pain when you discover that you left the bar without paying the tab on your credit card and know that there’s a sin tax on unpaid alcohol charges; the sting of a face slap when your lover discovers you lip-locking with her straight boss; the thud in your chest when your newest “amour de ma vie”_ sees you in the unflattering light of a fluorescent bulb and tells you he’ll take a raincheck; and my favorite, the sting when the person you adore and have built your life around chooses to dump you and spend their life with someone else.
Like I said, I have never felt the sting of sin. But I am certainly feeling the sting in my crotch after having my last bikini wax of the season.
I have a young legal student, Scott, come over bi-weekly to pluck my privates. He does it by the book, let me tell you. As an almost-attorney, he is so terrified of being sued that he takes time warming the creamy, luscious wax to the right temperature, and then places the wax in a gentle way upon my privates — all the while singing Gilbert & Sullivan show tunes. Then he quickly rips the follicle residue from my body. I wish I could say I hated our weekly rendezvous, but now that September is upon us and I’ll be shuttering my pool soon, I’m afraid that I’ll miss these sessions.
It’s times like these that I envy that Chastity Boner — I mean, Chas Bono. Not ashamed of his private hair-problem, in fact, he takes hormones to make more.
Forgive me, sinners, I’m still giddy from the hot wax and hot-breath legalese. Okay, what’s this week’s column about? Oh, yes!
I’m intrigued about how you men choose to camouflage your cranial male-pattern genetic deformities with the swift stroke of a razor. It’s cheating almost, except for the fact that everyone can see that you’re shaving your head and you have no hair. I pretend not to notice, let me say. Other than that, it’s a great disguise.
What is it about men and baldness being suddenly sexy? When I was growing up (before the Internet), all the men in the small town where I lived had these hideous things called comb-overs. Typically, they’re straight men (God bless ‘em!) who have no clue that this distorted sense of vanity puts them in the same category as Bozo the Clown. If you have hair, you’re God’s gift to the world. Look at all the wonderful, loving men that teach us about our Lord Jesus: Donald Trump, the Most Rev. Bishop Robert Finn, the Rev. Mike Bickle from the International House of Prayer (IHOP). They all have hair.
Men with hair are Christians. Men without hair are evil.
There, I’ve said it. If you are reading this and you don’t have hair, you are guaranteed to die and live in the fires with Satan. Sorry to be the bearer of this bad news, and I hope this doesn’t create any bad feelings about Christmas, which is coming up. Jesus told me to tell you (yes, he speaks to me often) that you shouldn’t ruin his birthday in December just because you don’t have operating follicles and are doomed to the Eternal Fire. Forget about that for the moment and smile. That’s what I do.
My crotch is sore.