I was halfway through waxing Burt Reynolds’ scrotum when I thought, “Girlfriend… why you putting up with this shit?” and got my skinny ass out of that door pronto, leaving ol’ Burt shouting and hollering about his ingrowing testicle hair problem – like I give a damn. People have been riding my ass all of my life and not in the good Las Vegas way neither. I was considering the fact that I haven’t really ever done anything for myself, I have always been doing things for others. Even when I was a scrawny kid, growing up in the ghettos of Windsor, England, I was always selfless, making myself useful round the house. My dear old Mother used me as a coffee maker – that is when my sweet ol’ Daddy wasn’t utilising me as a hat stand. He had thirty-seven hats, that wonderful man. All of them black bowler hats. He used to busk outside Windsor Castle doing Sammy Davis Jr. impressions, naked. He had to retire when, in the middle of his act, Princess Diana went past and winked at him, making his Mr. Bojangles stand to attention. He was lucky they didn’t throw him in the tower – but, secretly, I think Diana enjoyed it. I don’t think Charles was much in the man department, you know.
That chapter of my life came to an end when I hit Puberty and, consequently, Puberty sued me, took me to court and I had to give him all of my teeth in damages. I could, of course, no longer grind coffee beans for my mother and was of no use to her any more. So, leaving forever, I said a very tearful an emotional goodbye to my mother, my dear, sweet father and my bearded collie dog, Shithead. With only just over forty-five thousand pounds in cash, I wandered out into the world to seek my fortune… and where else to go than America? So, I hitched a ride with a group of hippies who just happened to be driving to San Francisco. Four hours later, the VW bus pulled into San Francisco and we all hugged in celebration. Two of the guys hugged me really tight and didn’t appear to notice that their pee-pees had fallen into my woo-wah. Still, no-one seemed to be all that shocked, so I went along with it believing it to be normal – although I did think it was odd that they were shouting that they were coming when, in fact, we had already got there. I made my mind up right there and then never to try Coca-cola. Anyway, the feeling of elation soon faded when we realised that we had, in fact, arrived in Cardiff and not San Francisco. Worse still, all of the people there appeared to be Welsh.
So, wearing leeks in our hair, we spent the “Summer Of Love” (1991) in South Wales and survived by spending my pitiful life savings on exotic food like “bread”, “baked beans” and “smoked salmon”. Luckily, my money went a long way and we were able to stay in the local flophouse, a little but cosy place called The Hilton. My new friends told me that the Welsh word for water was “Champagne” so we survived on lots of Champagne which, oddly, was fizzy and made me want to dance. I now, of course, know what Champagne actually is and am – one day – going to go back to Wales to bottle their water supply… I think I could make a fortune selling it. I shall never forget that summer with Dog, Crusty, Digger and Harold for as long as I shall live and I was really grateful to Crusty and Harold for – somehow – stopping that inconvenient and messy bleeding every month for me but, of course, all good things come to an end and, come fall, I decided to use a more conventional method to get to America – hovercraft. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find any hovercraft owner who would take me to America, so I reluctantly settled on taking one of those new, strange aeroplane things and took a taxi cab to the nearest airport – the nice man told me that the nearest Airport to Cardiff was in a small town called Manchester and I wearily fell asleep whilst he drove.
I arrived at the airport seven hours and five hundred pounds later. Only having around twenty-thousand pounds left, I needed something cheap, so I put half of my money on the British Airways desk and asked the nice wide-eyed lady for a single to America. She asked me if I wanted a first class ticket, but I didn’t go in for all of that fancy stuff so I said that I’d travel with all of the other working people. She sold me a ticket to a place called Los Angeles in something called “Business Class”. I must have been nervous about flying because I felt a really weird kicking sensation in my very fat tummy. Too much toast, beans and smoked salmon, obviously. I planned to go on one of those fancy American diets when I got there and made my fortune. The aeroplane ride wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be and, for common people, the seats were quite nice and they served fresh Welsh water, making me feel quite at home. One of the stewardesses asked me if I was OK flying ‘in my condition’ and I replied that I’d much rather the aeroplane flew and I just sat here, thank you very much. She gave me a very hard stare and walked away muttering something about ‘smart asses’. I immediately liked her for noticing the tidiness of my bottom, as I’d always been proud of its perkiness.
After a very comfortable flight, I arrived in Los Angeles very excited and warm… America was hot! After leaving the airport, I decided that I didn’t need my heavy British clothes so I stripped off and walked around a place called Hollywood naked – nobody seemed to mind, although cars tend to crash a lot in America, especially it seemed when I was walking down the street, so I feared for my safety and went into the nearest building for safety, a local cafe called “Planet Hollywood”. Everyone was very friendly to me and there was a huge man inside who took me in the back room and gave me a very nice welcoming hug, just like Crusty and Harold – at first I thought he was mentally retarded because he spoke really slowly and he had a weird glazed look in his eye, but one of the waitresses told me that Arnold was just like that. I explained to him why I was in America and he said that he could fix me up with a job doing beauty treatments for Hollywood stars and I thanked him very much. He hugged me again, but this time from behind. Then he spunked on my tits.
So, that’s where you find me, fifteen years later, walking down a corridor of some swanky Hollywood beauty salon with a naked Burt Reynolds jumping up and down angrily behind me, looking like the last unsold Thanksgiving turkey in the butcher’s shop. Of course, I’m a lot older and wiser now. Unfortunately, I haven’t really kept my youthful looks and I have (for some unknown reason) a fifteen year old child at home to provide for, so I swallow my pride and return to Burt, apologise profusely for leaving temporarily and carry on with his scrotum waxing. That’s my story. Perhaps one day I will really seek my fortune but maybe I’ve found it. Perhaps plucking the grey hairs from aging movie stars’ genitalia is an honourable profession and as good as it gets. But I’m willing to bet that it isn’t. Coming, Burt!