Just today, someone from Laredo, Texas found my website because of Google. They found me because they were conducting a search for “smelly pubes.” A while back, someone from Brooklyn, New York found me because they were Googling “cannot find tampon in vigina.” (sic)
That’s the power of the internet! Right there - kapow! People finding me in my little corner of this tangled web, by looking for shit that’s important to them. Things that are close to their heart. And they find me! And they’re probably disappointed. I don’t have a lot of content or pics devoted to smelly pubes (ok, I don’t really have any), and I’m more or less unable to answer where a plug of cotton with a string attached has absconded to in that unholy maw between their legs.
One thing about the Brooklynite with the lost tampon in their “vigina” - do you think Google was their first choice? Or did they finally come to Google after trying something shittier, like Ask Jeeves? I’d wager a guess that Jeeves would be horrified by that question, and perhaps a touch judgmental. Does MapQuest have her vagina (sorry, vigina) in its database yet? So many questions. I wish my website here had more answers. I’m pretty tampon ignorant, and this is why my website fails. From what I can find on the comments on a post from cheesedip dot com, The Case of the Missing Tampon might be a common one. And most clues point you to the Gynecologist, Nancy Drew.
I drove out to a friend’s house on the other side of town Saturday, and on the way there, sitting at a light, I could feel the person in the left lane looking at me. You know how that is? You just know they’re looking! And you have to make a choice - do you turn and face them, or try to act like you don’t notice they’re looking and let that feeling burn your skin until the light changes? That day, I made the choice to look. I was greeted by a grizzled-looking 60-something Hispanic man leaning over to the passenger-side window of his rust-peppered white pickup. He was smiling broadly and gesturing wildly at me. I could hear nothing over my music. I turned the CD off, and asked what he had said.
“I said, do you want to buy a 30-gallon aquarium,” he shouted, jerking his head back to the bed of his pickup, where there was a rather unkempt-looking aquarium nestled in a bed of yard debris, hay, and crunched beer cans.
I took a moment to gauge whether he was serious or not, and decided by the crazed twinkle in his eyes that he was serious like Yahoo.
“No thank you,” I yelled back, cursing myself for not having bags and bags of habitat-less fish back at my place. How perfect would that have been?
