: May 2001: By Dingus Mutombo
only saw my mother's bush once,
and I've never fully recovered. I was so young and small
that her pubic region hovered above my head on that fateful
evening when I wandered into the bathroom unannounced
and stumbled upon the disturbing apparition of her pasty
white skin and that BIG BLACK
JURASSIC PARK BUSH. I was startled and frightened by what
I saw. There seemed something evil about the wadded knot
of blackness between her hips. It was as if I had walked
into a lost episode of Star Trek and some parasitic
Tribble had attached itself to mommy's crotch. At first,
I was unsure whether she needed my help.
Neither of us said a word, and after a
moment of youthful silence, I spun around, left the bathroom,
and went back to my Etch-a-Sketch.
Mom's dead now, which should quell most
of the cynics out there alleging that I want to fuck her.
In truth, I don't miss her at all. And the only thing
I like about the old bag is that she never took a razor
to her nether regions.
Some men like big asses. Others like big
boobs. And I like big bushes. The bigger the bush, the
harder my cock.
I realize that my tastes are not currently
fashionable. I'm aware that I risk severe social ostracism
by declaring my fondness for the hirsute vulva. Nowadays,
most men and women seem to favor a mons pubis that
is at least partially shorn. Partial, I guess, is better
than total. The Hitler mustaches and landing strips and
Mohawks and five o'clock shadows are bad enough; some
foolhardy gals take it to the extreme and shave their
womanhood down to a shiny wet peach sans the fuzz.
But human genitalia are not the most attractive
thingies. The vulva, like the penis, is not a visually
appealing organ. It has none of the aesthetic grace of
a Grecian urn or a '57 Chevy. A bald vagina is no more
attractive than a bald head. It looks like a kangaroo
fetus, all pink and slimy and squirmy. Like a battlefield
after nuclear war. Like an open, dripping wound. Like
a wad of wet, chewed-up bubble gum. A sheared snatch looks
as if it's undergone chemotherapy. Put a wig on that thing.
Cover that hideous thing up. Comb the hair over to cover
the scar. Cover the scar. Cover the goddamned scar.
I don't merely want a nice light carpeting
of fur down there...Not a light dusting of snow...I don't
simply require coverage down south in the Golden
Triangle; I want VOLUME. I require something 3-dimensional.
I'm not satisfied with gentle, unassuming tufts; I want
a BUSH. I want it to look as if a frickin' tarantula is
sleeping on her crotch. I want something you can lose
your car keys in. I want a bush you can grab and pick
her up with. I want a chick to be like the Jimi Hendrix
Experience down there. I want her to look like Fidel Castro,
Abbie Hoffman, or the Smith Brothers (of cough-drop fame).
I want her lap to be covered with a fleece of chick-fur
so dense that a hairbrush gets stuck in it and she has
to resort to an Afro pick. I want some righteous shrubbery
down there. A tumbleweed between her legs. A luxuriant
briar patch of female chaparral. I like it shaggy. Furry.
Woolly. A lush, gnarled, tangled, black Brillo pad. A
matted, stinking, soppy mass of dreadlocks.
A long-whiskered vulva bespeaks fertility.
Fruitfulness. Health. Sensuality. Like darkest ground
coffee or a huge, resinous tobacco leaf, a full, healthy
bush reaches toward the sun and greets the new day.
"I want it to look as
if a frickin' tarantula is sleeping on her crotch....I
want a chick to be like the Jimi Hendrix Experience
think I can't hear you chuckling. You say I'M the freak?!?
Hey, at least I dig it the way nature intended it
to be. You want your gal to shave her bush? Why don't
you insist she shave her fucking head, too? And
why not cut her nipples off while she's at it? T'ain't
me who has a fetish--it's all you sorry goofballs who
want your girls to shave down until they look like kindergarteners.
All you smacked asses who shudder at
the thought of a full, lovely bush are nothing more
than brainwashed, kiddie-porn-lovin' conformists. Thirty
years ago, you all would have recoiled at the idea of
a shaved snatch. Ain't it hilarious how you ALL, in
UNISON, suddenly changed your taste, you spineless,
craven maggots? You easily molded dumbfucks. You pathetically
endowed robot hamsters. Don't you see? You've all been
psychologically conditioned by a pedophilic cabal of
Madison Avenue child-molesters. These fruity homo ad
execs have made the bush, that fullest flower of womanhood,
into something unhip and disgusting. They have force-marketed
small-breasted, skinny, bushless women onto the American
consumer because it reminds them of the little boychiks
whose tiny pink puckered starfish they crave so
Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's nothing
wrong with being sexually attracted to shaved snatches...and
maybe there's nothing wrong with being sexually attracted
to eight-year-old girls. Why don't you just go fuck
a Girl Scout, eh, Johnny Boy? Why don't you just slap
a diaper on that hairless beaver while you're at it,
If you enjoy ladies with crew-cutted
snappers, you are not only a pervert, you're a sinner.
A shaved bush is irrefutable evidence of a sinful lifestyle.
A vast, bounteous, three-dimenstional,
bushy bush is what God almighty, in His Infinite
Fucking Wisdom, intended Earth Women to have. The Lord
Jehovah provided the birds of the air with fluffy, pretty
feathers...He provided the clams of the sea with hard
protective shells...He provided the trees of the forest
with thick, rich bark...and He provided the human vagina
with an ingenious natural camouflage.
If God wanted us to stare at naked
bald vaginas, he wouldn't have gone to the trouble
of infusing a woman's DNA code with instructions for
constructing a bush, nor for REconstructing
that bush every time some foolish sinner is reckless
enough to shave it. The fact that a bush grows BACK
is evidence of God's will in action.
The Lord God, in his priceless greasy
generosity, bestowed women with bushes, and it took
the sinful arrogance of wretched humans to shave it
all away. When you shave that bush, you are hoisting
a weed-whacker against the Garden of Eden. You don't
think that God Almighty prefers lush female pubic
foliage? Then ask yourself this, you brazen, slump-shouldered,
cock-hungry heretic: Was it a burning bald beaver
that spoke to Moses?
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