Recently, the cosmic tumblers blessed us with sweltering heat and a day off school, so the Three French Men made our first beach trip of the summer. I was expecting a low-key weekday crowd, but I forgot about the eight or so billion college kids who've already been released into the wild. True to their diverging forms, Robert spent most of the time hanging out with other boys in comically oversized clown shorts, and TwoBert chatted up the Bikini Honeys.
And it was within one of these chat-ups that I came in contact with something new: a woman with a piercing in her coin slot.
I consider myself a somewhat worldly man. I've traveled a bit. I've experienced a lot of what New York City coughs up every day. And I'm not be-pierced or be-tatted, but I get that where you find one, you very often find the other. Most piercings are about decoration or gratification, but I can't see where clamping a stud atop your butt cleft achieves either. This woman, who also had many tattoos, had I guess run out of places to feel pain. Or maybe she put cards with her body parts written on them into a large drum and picked out a lottery winner.
I'm also curious about the procedure. Did a professional wad up what little flesh there is back there and cram it into a butt stapler? Has such a thing been invented? If so, I salute the person who saw a need, a gaping hole in the hole-making market, and achieved his/her own unique legacy. Because it is due to your efforts, oh great innovator of the upper-ass-puncture, that my sons and I spent the entire traffic-soaked trip home improvising songs about "butt rings."