back to the Black Table
  Michelle Goodman, Darci Ratliff, Jen Hubley, Jahnavi Goldstein Aileen Gallagher  

Tact is overrated. We employ it much too often in our lives and most of us become miserable because of it. Sometimes it's so much better to just tell people how you really feel even if it is cruel, cutting and would completely hurt people's feelings, or in one case, an entire neighborhood's feelings.

And the Waxing Off ladies have been tactful for too long about these things that jostle their emotional well-beings. There is something to be said for honesty. If we do not have honesty what else do we have? For one, we have a pack of ladies with rankled nerves just waiting to explode. Thank God they did it here and not any place where people can get hurt.


Michelle Goodman

Why do men insist on plaguing the women they bed with their bodily maladies? Sure, we expect we'll occasionally bear witness to the stray lunger, dingleberry, whitehead, or pubic hair. But we do not expect that, upon discovering our hatred of the sight and smell of bananas, you will pin us to the floor, churn the horrid yellow baby mush in your mouth with a bunch of spit, and dribble it onto our chin. Nor do we anticipate your ambushing us to proudly stretch between your thumb and index finger the glistening green piece of nose taffy you've just mined. Ditto for leaving your, well, manly leavings on a picture of yourself next to our bed for us to find later. This is not a romantic gesture.

I'd also like to address your fascination with your own dung, which we feel you should have outgrown sometime around preschool. But instead, you insist on using the auto window locker thingie during long roadtrips to restrict our supply of fresh oxygen when you make an unspeakably foul-smelling mess in your pants. And to those of you who delight in chasing us naked around the apartment with your shit wipes until we screech like some doomed Halloween 19 character, it's time you got some professional help.

Guys, maybe you never had a little sister to menace, or maybe your parents beat the crap out of you for tormenting the one that you had, but c'mon. Is it any wonder that you're always getting dumped? The occasional belch and fart is one thing, but public displays of the former contents of your nose, throat, acne, boils, bowels, hemorrhoids and that nasty space between your toes is utterly, unequivocally, unacceptable. If you want someone to wrestle with and lick the snot off your fingers, get a dog.


Darci Ratliff

Do you know what's disgusting? Public toilets. I used to pride myself on not being one of those prissy girls who had to hover over a seat in a bar bathroom stall. But then I started frequenting more disgusting bars and the hover-pee technique became a means of survival. I mean, I'm adventurous, but there are times when you take chances and then there are times when you stare syphilis in the face and say, "No, thanks."

So now there's an entire science involved in public peeing. Number one: always go before you leave the house. Number two (ha-ha, yes, I get the irony): a dive bar is not the place to be when you take The Browns to the Superbowl. Save that shit for a classier joint. And number three (ladies), if you're going to squat and hover, you've got to clean up after yourself.

You see, women don't have a urine hose that they can point in the direction of the bowl (Boys, seriously, you have no excuse). So we have to give it our best shot, balancing over the target, underwear around ankles, careful not to touch the actual toilet with bare skin (God forbid!), and trying not to fall. It involves a great deal of balance, timing, strength, and luck, and a touch of sobriety doesn't hurt.

But ladies, when you miss, you've got to start wiping up after yourselves. Give some love to the next girl in line. This isn't the fucking third world. This isn't Alabama. This is a ladies room. People throw up in here, faces touch toilets. Relationships are forged and finished within these walls. Expensive drugs are snorted and injected here. New life has been created against these sinks.

Have some respect. It isn't the fucking men's room.


Jen Hubley

Male New Yorkers are obsessed with shaving. First it was their backs, which, OK. Then it was their chests, which, gay. Then their cock 'n balls, cuz that makes it look bigger and all. (That's what you think.) As a proud fur-bearing mammal, I find this silly, but hey: Everyone has his own idea of a good time. Yesterday, however, I found my line in the sand of shaving madness, and here's where it is: People have started shaving their horrible little dogs and parading them up and down the street, expressly, it seems, so that I can get a good old look at their dog's dick.

Yesterday, on my way to brunch, I spotted not one, not two, not five, but SEVEN NAKED DOG DICKS, several of them so carefully clipped and coiffed that I had believe a special esthetician was engaged specifically for the unit-grooming segment of their trip to the doggie salon.

If you want to buy a nude rat for $2,000 and drag it around on a string, you go right ahead. This is America, where you are free to be as big a douchebag as you want to be. But please, I implore you: Buy the goddamn thing some underpants, since you're so fancy. Some of us would like to be able to order sausage at brunch without booting all over the blintz.


Jahnavi Goldstein

The other day my personal space was invaded by a toenail. I'm standing there in flip flops with my own neatly pedicured feet in line at Ross and mentally willing all the bratty kids to shut the fuck up. Then suddenly I feel something touch my foot. I look around, but the Star Jones look-a-like behind me is not THAT close. But I feel it again and look down and her toenail -- her bright blue, diamond encrusted three-inch acrylic toenail -- is protruding out over her shoe and touching me. I have been violated; I am a victim of ghetto toenail rape.

Even worse is when nasty feet are at the bottom of a fat, baby-oil covered chick that needs to lose 100 pounds to fit into the clothes she's wearing. Okay, good self-confidence and all that is great, but there's a difference between having a positive body image and just not owning a fucking mirror. If it won't look good on an anorexic girl, it's not gonna look good on you.

Reality alert -- you do not look hot, you do not look confident. You look like a fat whore. When your back fat roll is just as big as your stomach roll, when your fat is in surround sound, then yes, maybe a muumuu rather than that spandex crop top might be more appropriate. When your toenail is longer than your skirt, please just stay at home and out of my sight.


Aileen Gallagher

Hot New York City is an unpleasant place. The streets smell like spoiled milk and the people just smell spoiled. But the whole place may as well be a scented candle factory compared to Chinatown in July. While the neighborhood offers excellent food, quality knockoffs, and plenty of toys for your car-obsessed nephew, there is a cost to Chinatown's benefits.

Chinatown offers an olfactory sense of history in a New York that has been scrubbed down and sanitized past the point of recognition. You don't need to visit the Tenement Museum to learn just how uncomfortable life was in New York in the 1880s. Just head to Canal Street. Step out of the subway and inhale deeply, with your eyes closed. Open them quickly, lest you accidentally step in some offal. To your right is a tub filled with what could be sea cucumbers. You try to scurry past them, convinced that one might somehow leap out of the tub and suction itself to your face. But scurrying is tough in densely populated Chinatown. You'll have to step around confused tourists; clamoring children; ranting old ladies; men without undershirts; men with only undershirts; scary dead animals, bleeping gadgets, plants from outer space; rotting fruit; rendered fat; unrendered fat; squishy vegetables, questionable liquids; impenetrable stacks of cardboard; and Tuesday's newspaper. And this is just on one, two-block stretch of Canal Street.

Certainly, there are plenty other places in Manhattan and the outer boroughs that contain a similar mix of human refuse. Wherever groups of people are ground into each other like sand in a glass factory, it's not going to be pleasant. But Chinatown's mix of old world and other worldly, surrounded by quivering asphalt and reflected off shimmering skyscrapers, just makes the whole neighborhood smell like ass. But I'm all for it come October. Who wants dim sum?


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