July 31st, 2003 11:51 am
This amazing Irish rock star linked me to his site last month. He only has 5 links to other musicians, and for some reason only known to Elvis, he linked me.
This guy's music is...well, it's beautiful, but you just have to listen to it. He's got lots and lots of samples you can download on his website, www.jacklukeman.com. He's also obsessed with the Belgian singer Jacques Brel, and oh my God, one of his bandmates, the guitar player, looks just like my drummer, Titty Trahan! (Or Eric Rudnick, whichever you want to call him.) See for yourself:
Titty and Jack Lukeman's Guitarist...Separated at Birth? page. Check this guy out. He's touring this summer... go to Europe and see him. I have to go to bed now. Good night.

July 31^th, 2003 1:07 am
Thank God (even though I just said below that I don't believe in Her - ha! don't you love it when people call God a "her", like that's any more believable?!) Thank God July has 31 days, 'cause it may buy me a little more time before I have to tell my crazy old Greek landlords that I, um, don't have the money right now, but will Wednesday when I get paid again, I swear. This will be the first time I haven't had the rent on the 1st. The reason is because I'm too dense to understand how direct deposit works.
I signed up for direct deposit with my temp agency. Direct deposit always takes a few weeks to kick in. But I kept receiving paychecks in the mail, so I kept signing them and depositing them via ATM. Except I apparently can't read where it says in real big letters across the front, "THIS IS NOT A CHECK". So every time I went to the ATM to deposit, the balance recorded the paycheck amount twice. Thinking I had a lot more money that I did, I bought a photo printer, a DVD/VCR combo unit, and a plane ticket to New York, all in one week. And now I have less than nothing.
I've always done dumb things like that. Wanna hear another one? When I was 16, I met a strange Rastafarian man while taking a break from my bike ride, in a park just a mile or two from where Jeffrey Dahmer was currently living (he was years from getting caught, that little bugger!) The man invited me inside his van to smoke some weed. I didn't smoke weed, and besides, even though no one knew who Jeffrey Dahmer was -- yet -- I wasn't an idiot, or a small child who didn't know better.
So I got in. He lifted my bike up in there and propped it up against the inside wall. I remember orange shag carpet on the floor. He closed the door, smoked a joint and I watched. Of course, he told me it was very rude not to share the smoke. So, terrified of offending him, I took a hit and kacked up my insides. Then we talked. Well, he did. Droning on about Rastafarianism and shit.. Blah, blah, blah. Jah blah, Jah blah-blaaaah. I tried to follow along, but I was too high. Besides, listening to someone talking about Rastafarianism is almost as boring as listening to reggae. What I remember most is telling him I was getting ready to go to college and he said, "Beeyah cay-ful deyah. [Be careful there.] College is foolaff lezbeeahns! [College is full of lesbians!]" Predictably, I tried to debate gay rights with him and, more predictably, got nowhere.
Then he asked me to hug him. I felt that was weird and finally began to understand that I should really, really leave. I began to explain I had to go. He didn't move a muscle. He just sat there in a grey cloud of resentment, arms folded, sulking in his seat. My heart sank. I had hurt his feelings. I began to apologize. He still sat sullen. Finally, I caved in and hugged him. Such savvy in tapping into my reservoir of clueless, white-girl guilt!
When the hug was over, I backed away and opened the door while pleading to be excused. Would he just not be mad at me? As I lowered my bike from the van, still begging, he just sat there with his lip stuck out. He didn't say goodbye. I rode the eight miles back down Lake Drive with a sick feeling in my stomach. I had offended him, and there was nothing I could do to make him forgive me.
I got home safely; even in time for dinner. My parents asked me how my ride was. "It was nice," I said, and nothing more. After all, I wasn't an idiot.

July 29^th, 2003 11:41 pm
Erotic love is a drug, an addiction. It consumes you and leaves you weak, convinced you can't live without it. It makes you soft in the head and crushes your perspective. All you care about is feeding your love, satisfying your desires. As your genitalia engorges, your brain withers... as do your relationship with everyone else. Friendships, family -- the people that were there for you when you were born -- you let it all die on the vine, 'cause humping whoever you happen to be humping right now feels sooo much better than going to dinner with your parents at Palermo (yawn) Villa.

Love is bad is what I'm saying. Sexual love. My life is richer and happier now that I'm celibate and care only about platonic friendships. I'd be a great nun, except I don't believe in God. Oh well. I can find plenty of other things to do with my time. I have lots of interests: music, writing, travel... HEY! Why don't I have a BABY? It would totally make things a lot less confusing if I just raised a baby for, like, 20 years.
That's what I'll do. Hey, thanks for listening. It'll be a blast!

July 29^th, 2003 12:14 am -- "It's Nancy!" -- Again!
Oh God. I've resumed temping and my life has become "It's Nancy!" all over again. I thought I was past all that. But nope; I'm smack dab in the middle of an office that's overrun with Lindas. These babies put the "p" in petty.
Last Friday, the temps got yelled at for eating the snacks - we're talking chips, bagels, and soda; real high-stakes shit, no wonder people get so worked up - that are brought in on Fridays for everyone in the office. Well, everyone but the temps. They found that out on Friday.
It happened the way it always does: some person complained to someone higher up, "Tell the temps the food isn't for them! Not unless they bring food too!" Fine. That's reasonable. Would've been nice if someone had just said so in the first place, you know, like, explained how it worked and how they could be a part of it, instead of stewing over it for six weeks and then getting someone else to yell at and humiliate them. But that would have required for someone to acknowledge that the temps exist, to look them in the eyes and have a conversation, and that clearly seems to be an outrageous notion to these people. There are employees who, when greeted by a temp, not only won't say "Hello" back, but they won't even look at them. Amazing! In all my experience temping, and I'm sorry to say yeeeears, I've never seen that much hateful, embarrassing-to-the-company, 4th-grade social retardation. It's almost a mental illness; a pathology. Imagine what a miserable world you live in when you'd rather spend your energy actively ignoring other people who are behaving in the socially accepted way of being professional and polite to you. What did we do, kill your family? Knock up your baby sister? What is the reason? It's incredible. Breathtaking. Almost like going to the Grand Canyon. Have you ever been there, or to the pyramids? It's like that. Except you don't get to breathe in fresh air or have a good time at all.
So today one of the temps got fired for putting his foot on his desk. They waited for him to come into work this morning, Monday morning, to can him. Nice. A Monday morning where he could've looked elsewhere for a week's assignment had he known he wouldn't have a job today. He happened to be one of the best workers there, but whatever. Some asshole with a nice corner office who doesn't have anything to do with him - or his time, for that matter - happened to be strolling by last Friday and saw said temp with the offending paw on desk. "That doesn't make a good impression, does it?" the asshole said to the temp. The temp apologized and put his foot on the floor. The asshole went on his merry way. The temp thought, end of story. Wrong-o. The asshole went to the temp's supervisor and told her to fire him. For some reason, they didn't see the need to convey this to the axe lady from the temp agency until Saturday. So when the axe lady came in this morning, Monday, she was faced with the duty of canning the temp. Nice.
And now, if you'll excuse me, I have to finish watching the last hour of "The Way We Were" before taking my brief nap before going back to work tomorrow. Yeah, I still haven't finished it. I'm gonna owe a few lap dances in overdue fees on that one.

July 28^th, 2003 12:03 am
Great Discotown tonight. Special guests Melissa Paul & Brendon Small were very funny. Titty and Smokin' Grandma were in fine form, and the audience - a good mix of hotel guests, townies, and some fellow temps from work - or, as I like to call them, "Oompa Loompas" - was absolutely lovely.
My Discotown outfits are getting so tight, I wonder if they'll make me sterile. God, I hope so.
Now you know why I dress like such a tramp: 'cause I refuse to bring an innocent child into this disgusting, immoral world!
Look, it's going on the third night and I still haven't gotten through "The Way We Were". In fact, I still haven't gotten past the first 20 minutes. I keep falling asleep.
At what point do you decide to give up on a video and just return it, late fees and all? It just feels like such a defeat to do that. And like you've wasted $12 for nothing. If I'm gonna waste my money, I wanna feel like it was for a purpose!
I'm gonna try again tonight. Shit, I talk about my attempts to watch "The Way We Were" the same way that married couples talk about trying to have a baby! Is that what it feels like? Now I get it!
No wonder they think it's so special.

July 27^th, 2003 1:06 am
If you keep a journal, you'll empathize: this is one of those days where nothing really extraordinary has happened. And I'm in no shape to dredge up any good stories from the past, 'cause I'm burnt. So I'll tell you what happened today:
1. An old beggar man hit me in the back with a penny as I was crossing the street. I turned around and saw him standing there looking like a guilty 5th grader. So I charged up to him, yelling, "What did you just do?" He said, "Now don't get mad, Rachel" (how did he know my name?) and mockingly yelled, "Help! Police! Heeeelp!". That was funny and everything turned out fine. Well, except that he's still homeless.
2. Saw "Written In the Wind", a Douglas Sirk movie with Rock Hudson, Robert Stack and Lauren Bacall at the Hollywood Forever cemetery. If you're in LA, would you like to see great old Hollywood flicks outdoors in a nice big cemetery at night? Sign up for the mailing list at www.cinespia.org.
3. Made flyers for "Rachel & Joe's Comedy/Sex Show", our show at the Comedy Store on August 14th. They are very popular flyers.
4. Went to the party of a sophisticated women who flew in yak's cheese from Tibet. It smelled like my feet and was delicious, especially with grapes.
5. I saw for myself the insurmountable aesthetic divide between me, a gay man trapped in a woman's body, and all straight men, when I told my friend Richard Rushfield that Barbra Streisand had one of the most beautiful faces in the history of cinema. I could see him struggling to maintain a mask of nonchalance through his revulsion. I might as well have said I love drinking my own pee. He politely offered that, in his obvservations, no [straight] men ever share that sentiment about Barbra. Speaking of Barbra, I have to finish watching "The Way We Were". I fell asleep last night 1/4 way in when I rented it last night.
6. Kissed Mr. Tacos about 947 times.

July 25^th, 2003 9:54 pm
Whoo-hoo! LOOK at the time! I'm livin' the high life -- 9:54 pm on a Friday night and as soon as I'm done with this entry, I'm gonna curl up on my futon that I still haven't put the fitted sheet on -- it's lain there balled up at the foot of the bed, collecting cat hair and dust for, oh, 5 weeks now -- I did wash it, but afterwards it seemed too daunting a task to fit it back on the mattress -- you know how hard it all is sometimes. AAAnyway, I'm finnin' tuh lay me down on my futon and watch "The Way We Were" on VHS and fall asleep in my own vomit. Try not to be too jealous of this Rock Star. And I don't mean Barbra^TM
Tonight, after my insurance job, I got a little sloshed with a coworker, two Brits from Manchester, and a bunch of old farts at Hank's Neighborhood Bar -- "Delightful Dining and Drinking" the sign delightfully says -- on 10th & Grand downtown. Then I went to Skylight books, an independent bookstore in Los Feliz and browsed around. I like to go into Skylight Books and educate myself. I enjoy perusing the fiction, non-fiction, art books, reference books, magazines, bestsellers, Chomsky, McSweeney's -- everything my teary eyeballs can take in -- and really get a good overview of everything I don't know.
Then I walk to Video Hut and rent a movie.
Feels good to challenge myself like that every once in a while.

July 24^th, 2003 11:52 pm
My ass talks to me at night. Usually after I've been drinking. "You don't know dick about life," my ass says. "You ain't suffered one bit. You ain't had to watch everything in your life retreating in the rear view; always one step behind, always late to the party; always the butt - no pun intended - of the joke.

"You think you're so tough? Well, lemme tell you something: I could knock yo' ass  - pardon the redundancy.- all the way to Venice Beach. You get on my nerves, you see. Always whining about your boring job, your boring parties, your envy of your boring showbiz friends. Try going through life being sat on 150 times a day, breaking out in painful rashes, getting drooled over by perverts at the supermarket, and never, but ever, being the one in charge. I'm always the one gotta follow yo' ass - again, pardon the expression. And that's another thing: how'd you like it if you couldn't get through a serious speech because the whole world overused your name in the pejorative sense so you were reduced to a negative cliché that you yourself had internalized?

"You wouldn't like it, that's what. You'd wanna open up a can of whoop-ass on someone like you -- dammit! See what I mean? Get outta here! No, come back. Lemme beat yo ass -- damn!" 

I think I'm gonna have to tell my ass to lay off the sauce.

July 23^nd, 2003 11:27 pm
See how my diary entries are getting earlier and earlier in the evening? That's because They're crushing my spirit. You know who "They" are.
We all have a "They", don't we.
Speaking of which, I got a nice letter today from a young man in Ohio. Read it in the "Nut Mail" on the left.
There's this Russian Armenian guy who works at the coffee shop in the building where I temp. His name's Vladi and he arrived in the U.S. ten years ago. He's smart, got lots of soul, and very funny. When I asked him where he lived, he all but rolled his eyes at me and said, "Glendale, where else?"
He's also a musician. Yesterday we were talking about gigs. He said, "I made a promise to myself: I will not play music I don't like anymore. Even if they pay me well, I won't do it. I don't like the way I feel when I come home. I feel like someone close to me has died. I feel empty inside. I feel like I've slept with dirty woman."
I know all too well what he means.
Because I am a dirty woman. But not in the Pink Floyd sense, like "Oooooooh, I need a dirty woman." I mean literally, when I go to bed, I am dirty. I am dirty, and my bed is dirty. I always mean to wash the sheets, vacuum the futon, but the only time I remember how dirty the bed is, is when I have to go to bed. And by then, I'm too tired to deal with it. Like right now.
One time I was so tired (okay, I was drunk), I flopped down in bed and slept like the dead until the morning, when I woke up to feel gravel underneath me. All under my legs: hard, scratchy, itchy gravel. I lifted the sheet to look and screamed; it was just like the scene in "The Godfather" when the wife wakes up with the horse's head. Cat puke. I had slept on top of cat puke! And the scary thing was: since it was underneath me, it had to have been there when I went to bed.
But did I notice? No way, Jose! 'Cause I'm a dirty, dirty woman.
But I am also a musician with much integrity.

P.S. Today at work, this woman sent an email to everyone in the department with the closing, "Thanks, and make it a great day!" That was a new one. No longer content with the vapid, well-meaning "Have a nice day", the powers that be are now commanding us to make it a great day. Before, it was a benediction; now it's labor. Kind of takes the niceness out of it, doesn't it?

July 22^nd, 2003 11:37 pm
Mr. Hummel was an algebra teacher at my high school. He was a tall, lumbering man in his fifties with watery blue eyes, a pot belly and a bad case of swayback. When he turned to write on the board, his butt stuck out like a bustle. Mr. Hummel was effeminate and high-strung and got absolutely no respect from any of us. Everyone knows: if you're a teacher and the students sense your weakness, you're finished. We were predators, and when Mr. Hummel walked into the classroom, we smelled blood.

We'd start in immediately. When Mr. Hummel turned to write on the chalk board, one of the burnout guys would throw balled-up paper or make a fart sound. The class would burst into laughter. Mr. Hummel would whirl around.
"What, what, what, what, what, what, what..." He'd cluck like a chicken. "...what is the meaning of this?" He always said six or seven rapid-fire "whats", which cracked us up even harder. We'd finally simmer down, stone-faced, 'til he turned to the board again and it would start all over. But no matter what we did, Mr. Hummel never struck back. He never yelled. The best he could do was get redfaced, sputter, and curl up in a ball before handing out detentions. He was a cornered animal that we'd poke with a stick for recreation.

One day we went too far and we made him cry. I still feel horrible about it. I was never one of the instigators, but I was one of the laughers. As Martin said, "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem." It turns my stomach to think of it now. For years I'd wanted to write a letter apologizing to Mr. Hummel for the way we treated him, but I was too ashamed. I'll do it anyway and hope he's still on this earth.

One day every semester, as a special treat that we surely didn't deserve, Mr. Hummel would play the harmonica for the class. I'd heard the legend but didn't believe it. Sure enough, one day Mr. Hummel showed up with a rare smile on his face and a harmonica in his hand.

"Some of you may have heard that, that, that I play the harmonica," he began formally. Some of us tittered. Hurt flashed across Mr. Hummel's face, but he continued. "It's a hobby of mine that I enjoy immensely." We smirked at each other in anticipation of the trainwreck sure to come.

Then Mr. H. put the harp to his lips and proceeded to blow our minds.

This slopey, bald old white man in a cardigan transformed into pure musical passion was too much for us. His face was bright red, but this time, it was from the physical release of a flood of anguish and desire. We sat frozen in our seats, mouths agape. We didn't know shit, and we knew it. When he finished, Mr. H. put the harmonica away and, strangely calm like never before, began the lesson.

The cruelties would resume the next day. But on this day, no one dared mess with Mr. Hummel.

July 21^st, 2003 11:56 pm - Teenage Horndogs in Heat!
Or, Diary of a B.I.T. (Bulimic In Training)
So I just dug up this Snoopy memo pad of mine from the 8th grade. The cover is a color cartoon of Snoopy in a jogging suit, running with Woodstock down a forest path. I know Snoopy is never drawn with any facial expressions whatsoever, but I swear, he looks grim. He looks like he's thinking, "God, my ass is so fucking fat." Snoopy clearly hates himself, and Woodstock's job clearly is to say, "Ohmygod you're crazy! You're fine! You're fine! Stop thinking that way!" The caption says, "Jogging is good for the body and soul." An excellent representation of the eating disorder blossoming inside me at that time.
On the inside cover, I'd penciled in:
Pediatrician
Child's Psychiatrist
Dermatologist
What, were those my career goals? Wow. I really messed that one up, didn't I?
All the pages are torn out except one. I must've wanted to get rid of the evidence. On the lone page in the book, everything written in all caps, it says:

DOES DAVID LIKE ME?

Yes	No
-Lyzzie/Robby/Jean said so -He acted like it after homecoming	-He hasn't said anything -He hasn't really been paying attention to me -He's acting normal

CONCLUSION
1) He's embarrassed after Jean told him.
2) He liked me a little, but after he found out, he didn't want 2 like me anymore.

Yes	No
-He told me to call him last nite & expected me 2 call at 2:00 am- -He talked to me (out of his way) tonite	-He didn't dance w/ me once

CONCLUSION
1) He likes me & doesn't want everyone 2 watch him & me together.
2) He felt weird asking me 2 dance (since I never looked at him & talked w/ Andrew the whole time)

FINAL CONCLUSION: NO
He just likes me as a really good friend & nothing more.
(Asks me 2 call 2 talk, etc.) REMEMBER WHAT HAPPENED 2 LYZZIE.
He called her too, & asked her to Homecoming.

You must be wondering what were the terrible things that happened to Lyzzie. Horrors I can't even begin to describe! Hours obsessing over David. Pages and pages filled with poetry about David. Movies, dinners, mini golf -- evening after evening spent with David... and his friends.
And never even one kiss, not even one hand up the shirt, from David. Poor Lyzzie.
But wait, it gets even more neurotic! The opposite side of the page says:

LAST NIGHT
1 sandwich
1 granola bar
1 apple
4 cookies
2 cups ice cream
potato chips
chocolate chips
macaroni & cheese
peanut butter & jelly
popcorn
cake...

And then it says:

BREAKFAST
1 orange
1 cup of cottage cheese
Water
LUNCH
1 apple
1 piece of bread
Water...
God, why didn't I volunteer or something? TO BE CONTINUED... so, so tired...

July 20^st, 2003 11:40 pm - That Special Something
It happened again. I must really be somethin' special.
This morning I was riding my bike and I passed this dude on the sidewalk, doubled over and gagging. I thought he was puking, but he just hacked and hacked and finally hocked up a huge loogie. Then he straightened up, saw me, and whistled. "Whee, wheew!"
And that's the difference between this Neanderthal gentleman and everyone else: confidence! To have a stranger catch you in the middle of a disgusting bodily function -- and not only are you not embarrassed, but you proceed, without a moment's pause, to hit on that person: that's confidence! Like the homeless dude who's always pissing on my gate when I come home at night. He swings over to look at me frantically trying to get the keys in the lock. Then, Cheney in hand, still pissing, he lecherously lifts his eyebrows like Groucho and says, "Well, hel-lo!"
That is confidence. And that's why those guys get so much tang.

July 20^th, 2003 12:03 pm -- This Story's Not About Poop; It's About the Magic of Childhood Friendships!
When I was five, a new family moved into the biggest, nicest house on our block. They had a girl my age named Christine. Christine was an only child who looked like someone out of another century. She had delicate, white skin and long, dark brown hair and her mother dressed her weird, like Holly Hobbie. Christine was quiet and introverted and had no other friends that I knew of.
We started hanging together, usually at her house because it was so much more awesome than mine. Not only 'cause it was bigger and prettier, but because of the wood pile in the backyard.
The wood pile was a pyramid of thick tree stumps that I guess her father would chop into smaller pieces for their fireplace. Sounds weird, but it was Wisconsin; people have to have something to do with their time. The wood pile probably wasn't that big, but we were so small, it seemed huge. We treated it like a jungle gym. It smelled good, and it was fun to crawl up the stumps to the top.
Then one day, one of us realized you could sit over a gap in the stumps and take a shit. The shit would drop down, never to be seen again. Christine and I started pissing and shitting in it regularly, making sure to do it on the side facing the woods, where we couldn't be seen at all from the house.
It was a blast. We knew we'd invented something that we weren't supposed to do, and we could go on doing it forever if we wanted to 'cause we'd never get caught. It was our little secret. We'd pull our pants down and shit facing each other, silently, meditatively, like lovers in tantra. Whenever I came over to play, it was just a pretext for us shit in the wood pile together. In this way, Christine was my first love.
One day Christine came to the door and her face was tense and guarded.
"My mom and dad said I can't play with you anymore."
"Why not?" I asked.
"They found the stuff in the wood pile."
They moved shortly afterwards, and I never saw Christine again.

July 19^th, 2003 1:41 am -- Today's Challenge: To Not Write About Revolting Bodily Excretions!
I'm so psyched; I just remembered a great story from my childhood!
Oh, but it's about pooping in a woodpile.
Never mind.
Got a very nice Fan Mail today from a psychic/spiritual advisor in Canada called The Ancient One. You can't say I'm not meeting new & interesting people.
Do you know who Melissa Paul is? Of course you don't; not yet. If you're in the LA area, go to Melissa Paul's website, find out where her next show is, and go see her for a measly 5 to 10 bucks while you still can, before she's a big freaking star, or dead. Spontaneous, original and downright riveting, she throws a floodlight on all that's fucked and squeezes it for every ounce of comedy that she can. The result is terrifyingly funny.
Goodnight, children. Don't worry, tomorrow I promise you'll get a nice poop story.

July 17^th, 2003 9:38 pm -- WARNING: DO NOT READ DURING BREAKFAST!
I actually just yelled the following words at my cat: "Don't puke on my purse or my paycheck, you fucking asshole!" You see, I keep everything of irreplaceable value on the floor. And such is how I maintain my highfalutin' lifestyle.
The cat in question was the one I never talk about, Charles Van Doren. I don't talk about him because, unlike my other cat, Mr. Tacos, the great composer (see his music video on the "Music & Comedy" page), Charles Van Doren's only artistic talent is making brown, stomach-acid Jackson Pollack paintings of my valuable belongings every goddamn day. And then in this unbearably hot weather, in a matter of minutes, the ants come & swarm the mound of formerly-dry, now fragrantly-wet cat food.
Shit, today I was running out the door for work with the lofty goal of being on time for once (yesterday I was put under the advisement that "you don't think they're watching you, but they are" -- ooh! just like Children of the Corn!), and slipped in a load of ant-covered puke. I slapped dead the ants running up towards my twat (pervs! -- they're "protein ants", there really is such a thing), swept up the load and tossed it over the balcony, ants and all -- apologies to everyone below! -- then I Febreezed^TM the stain so the ants wouldn't come back. They hate Febreeze^TM. Febreeze^TM kills ants dead by mummifying them instantly. Febreeze^TM can kill anything; it's a weapon of mass destruction! Which is why there is not one iota of Febreeze^TM to be found in Iraq.
Anyway, to finish the saga of my heroic Battle Against the Ants: when I returned home at the end of the day, I was pleased to see that the puke stain was ant-free. Then I saw a pair of panties laying on the floor. They were pink, but the crotch was solid dark brown.
That's right -- fuckin' pervert ants!
Fuckers!

July 17^th, 2003 12:27 am -- Boy, Have I Hit a New Low!
Sorry, ladies & gents, but I can't write tonight. My feet are so smelly that I can't concentrate. Why bother writing? I'm enjoying this too much.
Six "gross" smells that I actually enjoy are:
1. Feet
2. Skunk
3. Pits (mild to medium, not pungent)
4. Crotch (urine-free)
5. Ear wax
6. Matches, gasoline
But please, don't think anything goes. I do not want to smell:
1. Bad breath
2. Dirty hair
3. Ass
...unless it's my own. Hey, it's my house. If you don't like it, don't come over and smell my butt. It's that simple.
Sorry, but I gotta go to bed. I've got to ride my fat ass up a hill