Andy: Skip the following entry. Trust me. If the word "moist" makes you scream "Ew! Ew! Ew!", I can only imagine how freaked out you'd be by the following. You have been warned.

WARNING: TODAY'S BLOG ENTRY CONTAINS GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF FEMININE GROOMING RITUALS THAT YOU PROBABLY ARE MORE COMFORTABLE JUST NOT THINKING ABOUT.

So I'm in full chicken-with-head-cut-off mode in getting ready for Australia. (Australia! Australia! Aus-- ok, I'll shut up now.) Today was devoted to (1) Book buying (hey, it's a long-ass flight), and (2) The dread Feminine Grooming Rituals. Aieeeeeeee!

What the hell does that mean? I got my haircut (no problem), and had the following bits waxed:

• Eyebrows (Ow!)


• Armpits (OwOwOw!)


• Legs (OwOwOwOwOwOwOwOwOwOw!!)


• Bikini Line (OwOwOW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! OW! times 10 to the 5th power.)

I've had my eyebrows done before, and it hurts, but it tends to look good afterwards, so I'm ok with that. I'd never had the rest done. But since I'm going to Australia, and I plan on living in my swimsuit and/or shorts and a t-shirt, and considering that airline security is so tight now that I'd probably be arrested for carrying a razor on board the plane with me, I figured I'd take take it out of the equation. So, waxing. Urgh.

My take on the experience:

Armpits: It hurts, but it's over pretty fast, and I apparently won't have to shave for a month or so. Cool.

Leg: Definitely not over fast. The shins and ankles hurt A LOT. I broke down and shaved two weeks ago before the Live Bait benefit (I didn't feel hairy ankles went well with my sparkly pants), and she said that it saw still growing back. Hmmm. So I may have to do some touch-ups while Down under.

Bikini line: Speaking of down under.... Oy. This hurts like CRAZY.

I was trying to figure out how to describe the sensation -- which, when you think about it, is stupid, as it feels like someone is ripping your pubic hair out. Duh. OK, think of someone pulling your hair off your arm with duct tape. Now think of that happening someplace infinitely more sensitive. There you go. -- and the main (non-public-hair-related) image I came up with was of a dog and an electric fence.

OK, stay with me here, it makes sense. When I was growing up, we used to hang out with the Reillys (parents Bernie and Rosemary, kids Erin, Jenn and Baby Bernie, who is now apparently 6'3" and a West Point grad -- I remember when he was born! Oh. Sorry, I digress), who were friends with this family called the Currys, who lived out on a a farm in Pennsylvania. Erin and I were walking around the the farm with Hershey, the Reilly's dog, one day when we came to a wire fence. We knew there were electrified fences on the farm, but we didn't know if this was one of them. Being idiots, we tried touching it with a stick to see it -- I dunno, if it burst into flames or sparked or something. (Yeah, yeah, conductive material, I know, gimme a break, I was 8 or something.) Nothing happened upon prodding the fence, so we decided it was safe to climb over. Hershey got tired of waiting for us and skimmed under the fence -- then proceeded to run in circles yelping (seriously: "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" just like in the cartoons) for what seemed like 10 minutes. "Ah," we said, "Electric fence. Now we know. Thanks, Hershey!" Then we wandered the perimeter until we found a gate and let him out.

So that's what it felt like -- the sort of thing that makes you want to yell "Yipe! Yipe! Yipe!" and run in circles until it goes away.

The woman who did my waxing was very nice, but the conversation was... odd. I told her this was my first waxing experience, and she proceeded to tell me about how she almost passed out when doing a Brazilian wax on herself. (For those who don't know -- that means taking off pretty much all hair below the waist, in whatever nook or cranny it may reside.) Then she said "You look tense." Hmm, go figure.

"So," she said, "How do you want this to look." How do I want it to look? I'm going to be living in a bathing suit, and I don't want it to look like I'm smuggling a long-haired angora guinea pig in the crotch of my suit. I'm not real picky -- I'm not actually expecting to get all that naked while I'm there, thanks. Despite this, the waxer spent more time making sure my, ahem, "bikini area" was even than the hairdresser did to the hair on my head. Very odd.

Her conversation pretty much revolved around what I like to call "Pubic Hair I have Known." This included a women with exceedingly long pubic hair ("It must have been 8 inches long!") and another woman who objected to the waxing of what is euphemistically known as The Treasure Trail, the line of hair going from your belly button south. Her response to that: "Maybe it was a religious thing." The mind reels.

So, to sum up, after far too much information: Bikini waxing really hurts. Men who like their women smooth and lovely about the naughty bits -- try it yourself some day. Oy. Geh. Ow. There is only so much suffering I'm willing to go through in a relationship.

Hey, people I don't even know are sending me insults for AT&T Broadband! How cool is that? This is from The Bar Code King, who I discovered actually links to me! Whoo-hoo!

I'm kind of partial to "vile feculent weasels" myself...

Thank you, that one's particularly nice.

The Bar Code King comes to my via Mary, who also sent me a list of choice epithets from AT&T Broadband:

Insults a la South Park: The Movie

donkey raping shit eater
big floppy donkey dick
weak stupid cumbucket
dick butt fuck face
pig fucker
shit faced cock master
cock sucking ass licking uncle fucker
boner biting bastard
ass spelunker

Well then. That's.... thorough. Thank you for your input.

I would have gotten these insults from South Park: The Movie myself, but I made the mistake of seeing it at Brew and View, which is a great venue for movies you've either seen before or don't care about hearing, as it's very much a participatory experience. I love it, but I couldn't hear half the movie. So, oh well. I must rent it one of these days.

Rushed home last night to meet the elctrician and the cable modem guy. neither showed. Made an appointment with the electrician for next week, and the guy at the cable modem place said they're send a tech out first thing in the morning -- "So, 8 a.m.?" "I can't guarantee that. Between 8 and 12." Muttermuttergrumblerumph. Fine. I just want the bloody thing fixed.

Didn't show up between 8 and 12. Called to complain. "I don't know who told you he'd be there then, because the techs don't start working until 1. Someone will be there between 1 and 2." I asked to speak to a manager. Didn't have one. Supervisor. Nope. Anyone. Sorry. What's your corporate headquarters. Nothing. Bastard.

Tech finally showed up at about 1:40, said "It should be fixed!" It wasn't. He said "That's weird; it's not supposed to do that." I know. Hence, calling you. Hencing, calling AT&T Broadband EVERY FUCKING DAY THIS MONTH. He fiddled with it, said he had no idea, then it started working again, he was satisfied and left.

So it's working at the moment, but no guarantees on how long it will be working. I'm looking for another high-speed internet provider. Muttermuttergumblemutterharumph. And possibily a large blunt object for the next time this stupid thing breaks.

So it's about 3 p.m. when I finally get to go into work. I pretty much was foaming at the mouth for the rest of the day. I'm off to write some hate mail at the moment.

Otherwise, went to the gym to work out with the trainer for the last time til Australia.

One week to Australia! Seven days, and I'm on a plane. Yeah, baby. I can't wait.

AT&T Broadband: Malignant ponyfuckers.

Random, exceedling weird link of the day, via Feral Living (which I get to via Mary):

http://www.catenema.com/cat1.html

Read and marvel.

Jane's contribution: "shit-eating donkey raper."

Thank you, Jane.

(Jane also sent me a link to the Wil Wheaton shirtless page. I like his blog, but I'm not into staring at prepubescent cheesecake pics, thanks.)

Today we will contemplate the ultimate Fiendish Plot, an entity of such inherent evil, such malevolent intent, such conscience-defying badness as to make the mind reel. That entity is, of course

AT&T Broadband

Bastards.

<premeptive note> Yes, I know, in the grand scheme of things -- a scheme that includes bombings, anthrax-infused mail, precarious (at best) job security, and more than a couple of those Horsemen of the Apocalypse -- cable modem access is the most trivial thing in the goddammed world to be whining about. However, all our leaders are urging us to live our lives as normally as possible, and for me, that means bitching and moaning about relative trivia and acting like I am the center of the world. So there.</preemptive note>

So here's the deal: My cable modem has been on the fritz pretty much all month. They came out to fix it once, but alas, to no avail. I've been calling customer service daily, and they keep saying that someone will get back to me to take care of it. Never happened. On Friday, I had a light-to-moderate hissy fit, and they promised to send someone out on Sunday. At some point. I asked for them to do so in the morning, and they said they'd try. Harumph.

Yesterday, I spent the day inside waiting for the electrician, who in the end couldn't show. That pissed me off, but just a little, because he was doing me a favor by trying to come on the weekend and at short notice. And when he does come, I know he'll fix things, and do it cheap. So while I was lightly peeved, I didn't think it was any big deal.

But today, I woke up early, didn't shower, waited ALL DAY -- 8:30 to 5:30 -- for the cable modem guy to show, and ... nothing, No one came. No adequate explanation from customer service. Nothing. Again, bastards.

To make things worse, this was probably the last beautiful weekend of the year -- sunny, mid-60s, leaves changing and falling, people running around looking happy -- and I was going to (1) go to the forest preserve with Christine to soak in the leaves, and (2) buy and plant bulbs for next year. Plus all the annoying errands, such as laundry and grocery shopping etc. etc., which I couldn't do because I couldn't leave my fucking apartment. Arghh. I honestly think I hate these people.

So, I'm looking to alternatives for high-speed access, because AT&T BROADBAND IS OBVIOUSLY RUN BY PUSTULANT ALIENS FROM OUTER SPACE WHO ARE TRYING TO SAP THE WORLD'S ENERGY BY INSTALLING BOGUS MODEMS AND THEN DRIVING EACH AND EVERY ONE OF US, LITTLE BY LITTLE, COMPLETELY CRAZY.

I know, I'm yelling. Guess what? I don't care. You know why?

Because AT&T Broadband, it's managers and employees, are MALEVOLENT CARRION EATERS.
They're UNHOLY SCUM-SUCKING WASTOIDS.
They're GOD-FORSAKEN OFFSPRING OF A MUTANT THREE-ASSED HYENA.
They're A TRAGIC WASTE OF CARBON-BASED LIFE.
They're BASTARD CHILDREN OF A ROTTING OKRA PLANT.
They're A BROOD OF FLATULENT PIG-DOGS.
They're DESCENDENTS OF A MISBEGOTTEN UNION BETWEEN A BRAIN-DAMAGED CAMEL AND A HAIR-METAL BAND.
They're GOAT-SCREWING ASS-SCRATCHERS.
They're SHATNERIAN EMOTERS.
They're DUNG-HEAP-DWELLING SONS OF A SILLY PERSON.
They're IDIOTIC BRAIN-EATING ZOMBIE WANNABEES.
They're ISSUE OF A DISCARDED CTHULU-ESQUE SLIME BEING.
They're THE END PRODUCT OF A BULEMIC WARTHOG'S DIGESTIVE PROCESS.
They're THE SCRAPINGS FROM THE LITTERBOX OF A DIURETIC MOUNTAIN LION.
They're VOMIT-SOAKED BOY-BAND PRETENDERS
And worse.

They are also liars, cheats and conmen. They are unworthy of anyone's esteem. They suck.

<note>My friends rock, by the way. I call them out of nowhere, I ask them for insults, and instead of simply hanging up and/or having me committed, they come through for me. Tripp contributed the goat-screwer, Wendy the okra plant (plus the rational bits), and Rob the following: "AT&T Broadband -- get your internet from the same people who bring you Melissa and Joan Rivers" Oh, and I think son of a silly person is Monty Python.</note>

Plus, I've had the radio on, and I kept hearing goddamn AT&T Broadband commercials. And their hold audio ("This is all the great stuff AT&T Broadband can do!") is asinine and repetitive.

Well. That feels better. Not only did I get that out of my system (STINKING DUNGBEETLES!) (well, pretty much), I also got to call just about everyone I know in search of insults. A couple of reflections:

1. My friends tend to be out on Sunday nights. What's with you people?


2. I hate the time difference between here and Europe.


3. An inordinate number of creative insulters (Lotti, my dad, Deane, Dawn, Jeremy, Mary, Andy) are either out of town or unavailable due to wrong numbers, etc. Harumph. You missed the memo about it being all about me, didn't you.


4. My sister Amy is foolishly protective of her new boyfriend, who is apparently a cross between me and our dad (but Canadian), and who lived in Britain for nine years to boot, and would therefore be an ideal sounding board for insults. But noooooooo. Just because I've never met the man, because, in fact, he hasn't met anyone from our family, Amy is weirdly sensitive about giving me his phone number to call him out of nowhere, without a proper introduction, and ask him to produce innovative insults at a moment's notice. What's with that, Amy? He's going to have to get used to us at some point, right?