Of all the sights that have caught my eye, there's one I truly know that gives me frights and makes me cry: the dreaded camel toe.
Why oh why do women not bother to look in the mirror sometimes? Especially when that woman is about to get up on a stage in front of 60 people and have spotlights shining upon her? Wouldn't she want to make sure that every thing is as good as it can be? Her hair and make up spot on? Her outfit freshly pressed? Her black Lycra® pants not being sucked up into her vagina?
There was a performer at my job last month who although extremely talented, was upstaged by her guest star, Camel Toe. Camel Toe came up on stage with her and then it never left. It liked the attention and it was not going anywhere. We have a full length mirror in the dressing room, for Christ's sake. Use it. You know in those cartoons when someone is really bad on stage and a giant hook comes from offstage and pulls them off? How I wished for a giant pair of pliers to show up and pull those pants out of her pooch. Or you know how on Showtime at the Apollo Sandman Sims would come out and tap dance someone off the stage when they sucked? I needed Sandman to rise from the grave and tippy tap that twat away. Maybe the singer liked her Camel Toe. Maybe it gave her comfort in the same way that Linus from The Peanuts takes comfort from his blanket. After all, she did wear a black top with a line of sequins that went right down the front of her body ending at Camel Toe. Was this a way to draw attention to it? And in almost every song, she swayed her hips back and forth and to and fro making Camel Toe more prominent with every move. By the time the show was over she had almost graduated from Camel Toe to full on Moose Knuckle. It was distracting to me and I usually am not in the habit of looking at that particular part of the female anatomy.
I kept waiting for her to sing Midnight at the Oasis so she could utter the perfect lyrics, "Send your camel to bed" and if not to bed then to the Bronx fucking Zoo. Anywhere but my place of employment, please. At one point she sang a song about the Sahara Desert and I couldn't help but wonder if it was a shout out to her friend Camel Toe. Every time she took a sip of water, I questioned if the water was for her or Camel Toe. Was her Camel Toe one-humped or two? (It was two.)
After her last song, she ran off stage to where I was hanging out by the bar and she waited to return for the obligatory encore. I tried not to look at Camel Toe, but it was staring at me. "Hey there, Bitchy Waiter, down here! Look at me! I'm hot and sweaty, but happy as a clam. For I am Camel Toe! I'm thirsty."
"Ummm, good show," I muttered.
"Oh thanks, sweetie. I guess I'll go do one more song." She readied herself to return to the stage. She shook her hair out and took a big sip of water. And then she hiked her pants up so high that her Urethra Franklin cried out for some R-E-S-P-E-C-T. She closed her act and then came out and chatted with us as we cleaned up for the night. She gave me a kiss on the cheek and thanked me for everything. After she left, I told my boss, "She was really nice. It's gonna be difficult to write a blog about her camel toe." You know what though? It really wasn't that difficult at all.
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