Bi-Scurrilous

All right, then, listen up -- bi-curious is cool, unless, that is, a certain bi-curious individual has a face like a horse whose mouth was implanted with fifteen extra horse teeth by an evil scientist named Doctor Julius Bastardo.

Let me explain.

Last night, I was flipping through the channels, came upon a VH1 documentary about bi-curious women who are married. Okay, interesting enough. What made it even more interesting was that there is a place in the Bahamas where these married bi-curious babes can go mingle with other bi-curious babes, and, perhaps, get it on…As their chagrined albeit excited husbands stand on the sideline (literally) and fiddle nervously with their crushed self-esteem while at the same time find a comfortable position in which to hide their confused and perky wieners.

Yes, it’s a wonderland, this place. Full of magical hopes, and fantastical dreams wherein girls mack on girls and men get to watch their girls mack on other girls, then go masturbate in the bathroom. Really, quite romantic.

I can’t tell you how fascinated I was. Seriously, I can’t tell you. My oldest daughter reads this blog sometimes, so, you know…

But I digress like a fat kid love cake.

Anyway, one of the focus couples, a seemingly lovely pair from Wisconsin, put a bit of a damper on my…er…fascination. Mostly because the bi-curious wife was butt fugly to the point of obscenity. Had a face like a jigsaw, she did -- nice hair, though, but my sweet Madonna, what a fucking awful pity about that face of hers. Yet…I liked her. She seemed like a fun person, an open-minded lady with a boring life -- kind of like me, actually -- and she had a cute figure on her, I’ll give her that, but I just couldn’t get past that face.

Oh, that face! It is a face that blew up a thousand ships, a face that makes angels cry, then throw rocks and garbage. It totally ruined any….fascination ***ahem*** I may have had with this program. All I kept thinking was “No one in their right mind would dare put their lady parts near that row of garden shears, I don’t care how desperate they may be. No one will want to kiss that picket fence for fear of splinters, no one would want to taste the yellow, smell the tartar, bruise their tender lips -- or worse, have their lips completely ripped off, then swallowed and digested. Would they? Naw…”

But someone did, and I swear on Dorothy Parker’s grave, I gagged. I gagged and looked away as some hottie tongued the massive maw from Hell, I choked on bile when the kissing-clacking-ripping-shredding sounds permeated my being, murdered my very soul.

It was the wrongest thing ever. Wronger than wrong. Wronger than using awkward adjectives like “wrongest” and “wronger.” It was wronglacious.

I turned off the television, then quietly vomited into my teacup.

The moral of this story is a simple one, ladies and gentlemen: The dentist is your friend.