January 17, 2009: 160 lbs (take skinny, alcoholic ass to gym. eat cheeseburgers), alcohol units: 19 (sweet baby jesus, liver hurts), cigarettes: 34 (good, considering the no. of alcohol units), no. of promises made to self regarding self-improvement: 147

I was on the pot for the third time that day—I had only been up for 15 minutes—when I realized I had a serious problem. My daily consumption of between 6 and 40 beers was wreaking havoc on my digestive track. Not to get too graphic, but these were some pretty messy expulsions. There was no way to clean up properly without taking a shower, so I usually walked around with all kinds of hell breaking loose in my underdrawers due to remnants clinging to my abundant butthole hairs. I know this sounds quite disgusting but a person cannot be expected to take that many showers. Anyway, due to the constant situation of my pre-shower underdrawers, I was in a constant state of nervousness until after the volley of nasty dumps had concluded and I could take a shower. Yes, my mother was one of those mothers who always tells you to have clean underwear on in case of an accident, but I wasn't worried about a car wreck or heart attack. No, the image in my head was a completely different kind of accident—one that I personally consider far worse.

Picture this: I'm walking down the street to get cigarettes or something, pre-shower, when Kate Beckinsale walks up and asks me if I would care for a blow job. Knowing the state of my underdrawers, I have to wave her off. Then, she would walk away thinking, "Bloody hell, I sure would've fancied giving that chap a blow job. Hmph." That's the kind of accident I was worried about.

As I sat there, trying to clean myself up the best I could without showering, I came up with two solutions. The first option I came up with included quitting drinking and eating lots of broccoli. I quickly abandoned that idea and kept thinking. Then, just like Jesus decided I was going to be his special little lamb of the day, the idea came to me. I'm going to get laser hair removal treatment for my butthole hairs. This will be brilliant! I will be much cleaner and the next time Kate Beckinsale offers up a hummer, I won't have to turn her down.

I decided to call around for the best price and set an appointment. As I looked through the phone book, a nasty question presented itself. Surely, they do buttholes. Right? I realized this was going to be a slightly embarrassing question to ask, especially since they probably have hot chicks answering the phones, who will instinctively think I'm either a homo or just plain weird, and thus will never agree to have sex with me. (I consider all females potential sex partners and the loss of one out a billion utter tragedy.) I decided I needed a little courage, and though it was only ten in the morning, I figured a couple of cold ones would do the trick.

Thirty minutes and 2 more trips to the bathroom later, I dialed the first number in the book.

"Laser Hair Clinic of Tallas. This is Splashley. How can I help you?" (I've changed the names of both the businesses and the potentially hot phone chicks.) Splashley sounded hot.

"Um, I was wondering if I could get a price on one of your procedures?"

"Sure," she said. "Which area?"

"Um, well, actually, I'm not sure how to say this," I said.

"It's fine. We treat all areas."

"Even the more intimate areas?" I asked.

"Oh yes. That's very popular these days."

She was saying something else, but I started to picture Splashley's hair-free intimate areas and wasn't paying attention. Then I thought that maybe she would be the one who performed the procedure and I knew there was no way I could get it done there.

"Splashley," I interrupted. "I'm going to have to call you back. Sorry. Something's come up."

After a cigarette and another beer, I called the second place.

"Vallas Premier Laser Hair Removal. This is Bamanda. How may I help you?"

Bamanda didn't sound as hot, so I wasn't going to beat around the bush. "Hi, Bamanda. Um, this is a little embarrassing, but do you do buttholes?"

"Screw you, pervert," she said and hung up the phone.

I don't know if it was how I said it or what, but if you ask me, "butthole" sounds a hell of a lot better than "anal region" or something like that. Anal anything sounds like a bad porn to me.

I decided to call one last place before giving up.

Nichelle at "We Do it All Laser Hair Clinic" was very sweet and kind of sounded like my grandmother. There was no way I was picturing MeeMaw's intimate regions, hairless or otherwise, so I was okay on that account. I was still pretty nervous when I got around to asking about the butthole area and decided to say "rear end" instead.

"Shug," she said. "Don't be so nervous. We'll do the bottom of a hog's foot if he had hair down there. And, by the way, we call that the Cleanliness Zone."

I was relieved to hear about the Cleanliness Zone, but wondered a bit about the agricultural reference.

"How many treatments does that usually take?" I asked.

"Well, hon, it depends on what kind of a situation you got going on down there."

"Hmmm," I said.

"Put it to you like this: Is it more on the Sasquatch end or more going towards the gorilla end." She pronounced "gorilla" like "go rilla."

Having not studied the buttholes of either, I had no idea which animal was on which end of the butthole hair spectrum. Not to mention the fact that if I had to guess, I would say both those bastards would be on the same end.

"I guess probably somewhere in the middle," I said.

Nichelle started to describe the process and my mind started to wander a bit. I pictured myself on some table with my ass up in the air as a Star Wars type laser shot the hair out of my butt crack. Then all of a sudden, a horrible thought came to my mind.

"Nichelle, I'm sorry to interrupt, but what say there's an electrical surge while this is going on? I mean, could the laser somehow solder my butthole shut?"

"Sweet pea, there's no way for that to happen. Bless your heart. You really need to stop worrying so much."

"You're probably right," I said.

She went through the rest of her spiel, and it was finally time to ask her how much it would cost. When she said $500 I just about crapped myself and said, "Holy Jesus!" I then told Nichelle I'd call her back after I'd had a look at my finances. She said that was fine.

$500 to have my butthole hairs removed. That's ridiculous.

It was back to the drawing board with me and my butthole hair problem. As I cracked open another beer, I thought, Man, I sure hope I don't run into Kate Beckinsale before I get this worked out.

Trey Edgington earned his Creative Writing from the University of North Texas. He is an unemployed, alcoholic writer, living in Dallas, TX.