My birth control is discoloring the skin above my upper lip and it looks like I have a mustache. I've tried several different brands, but they all have the same effect. It looks really bad, almost like I have a permanent Dirty Sanchez. Any advice?
That is quite a pickle… mmm… pickles. Pickles make Fugly's petticoat fill with steam. So, about this ‘stache. This may come as a surprise, but along with wieners and phallic-shaped vegetables, ole' Fugly enjoys the beaver from time to time. In the 1930's Fugly was a gardener at the White House and during one hot sticky summer, Fugly had a Fried Green Tomatoes-style romance with Eleanor Roosevelt. My darling Eleanor happened to have a rugged, yet feminine goatee that Fugly would run a hairbrush through while reading Eleanor's favorite poems. When Fugly closes her eyes she can still feel the gentle prickles of Eleanor's elegant whiskers. Sadly, Teddy found out about our romps in the garden and was not pleased. He banished Fugly to a wildlife preserve in San Diego. I never saw Elanor again.
Oh right, you had a question. Shannon, you must accept the mustache and find someone who will appreciate it. Like me. Drop your bloomers.
I recently went out to dinner with a man who acted very bizarrely. He only ate bread and declined to order an entrée. I really didn't enjoy his company or his face but I hear he has a juggernaut of a weenus. Should I see him again?
Fugly's only been on two dates. Fugly finds that men are too intimidated to ask Fugly out. Men are frightened by a strong attractive female with striking, supple hooters like mine. One of Fugly's dates was in 1956 with a corpse named Milton. I wheeled Milton into a malt shop where we canoodled in a dark corner. Milton didn't have much to say, but lucky for Fugly, he died with an impressive boner. We dated for 6 months. I had to end it when the boner fell off and Milton's stench eclipsed Fugly's. Alright, Fugly has shared too much of her personal business. Amy, just remember when it comes to dating, penis size is more important than anything else, even a pulse.
What's up Fugly?
A certain grandson of a certain local celebrity showed me his brilliant red bush at Panchas last weekend. Fugly, it was terrifying. I wake every night in a cold sweat dreaming about its dreadful crimson bushiness. Fugly, I just want my life back. How can I get this shrubbery out of my thoughts?
Fugly, as you may know, is no spring chicken. Due to Fugly's advanced age, Fugly has developed both cataracts and vertigo. In addition to this, Fugly's oak hip has termites and a pesky woodpecker. Mmmm, pecker. Fugly only dreams of having a man with a bright orange target to help me locate his frankfurter. If only I could hobble down to Panchas right now and mount him before he has the chance to get away. Please point Fugly in the direction of this gingerbread dream. I guess I didn't answer your question, did I? Fugly says quit complaining.