So I was asking this really hot girl to the prom.
“Please?” I begged. “I’ll pay you!”
“I already have a date,” she replied. “Sorry.”
She was lying. She didn’t already have a date, and was only looking for a kind way to reject me. Although I did appreciate her letting me down softly, I knew what she was really thinking.
She was thinking that I’m hairy.
Grotesquely hairy, in fact.
You know you’re a beast when the mere sight of you repulses yourself. However, I wasn’t always like this. Oh no, there was a time when my body was as smooth as a baby’s bottom (because I was a baby). But then came that magical and fun-filled period we all know and love, puberty. Seemingly overnight, my bald physique was transformed into a knotty jungle of woolly delight.
And now, I would like to take this opportunity to present you with a basic overview of my horrible body hair problem. I can only hope you’ll find it both intriguing and educational, but—just in case—there’s a personal sanitation bag located in the seat pocket in front of you.
I can’t seem to remember the exact sequence in which my body hair appeared, but I’m pretty sure this was first. How did these frayed rat-like creatures get into my pits?
Well, it started off as nothing huge, just a couple of underarm whiskers here and there on each side. Then, one day, something funny happened. Which brings us to today: twenty-seven inches and counting, kids.
For a guy as disturbingly hairy as myself, it’s necessary to shave my face on a relatively frequent basis. Like, every ten seconds. But I hate shaving. The red, itchy bumps I get from scraping a razor across my neck are unpleasant to say the least. Besides, looking like a filthy hobo is kind of fun, in an “I scare children” kind of way.
CHEST / BACK / LEGS / STOMACH / TOES
If there’s a God, He must have a pretty cruel sense of humor to make me look like a walking shag carpet. I don’t even need to elaborate on this one. Ugh . . .
I only have one eyebrow. You wouldn’t know it if you saw me, however, because I shave it into TWO eyebrows. About once per week, I take an electric razor to the bushy area directly above my nose. Maybe concealing this genetic shortcoming is not the most confident thing to do, but at least I don’t look like a giant shrew is lying spread-eagle across my forehead. Right?
Now, this is interesting. My hands are like the hands of a monkey, except they are my hands, and—the last time I checked—I’m not a monkey. I mean, it’s all over my knuckles and everything. Too bad I don’t have enough space to tell you about the time I played Cat’s Cradle without the use of string.
The fact that I was turned down by a really hot girl is nothing more than an obvious indication that a double standard exists. Everybody is different, and my difference is that I’m really hairy. You’re completely blind if you can’t see that hairy guys are discriminated against every single day in this fascist society of ours.
By the way, if you’re completely blind, will you go to prom with me?