My male staff has given himself a Brazilian, and by that I don't mean that he has purchased one of those coffee coloured chicky babes you see at the Rio Carnival. You know, the ones with bare buttocks and bouncy boobs. He'd like to of course, but my female staff would never allow it. Or if she did it would be on the strict condition that he pays a visit to the vet first to have to dangly bits removed, pickled and then displayed in an ornate glass jar on the sideboard. No, actually it wasn't even a proper Brazilian, he just shaved his knees, and let me tell you it was not a simple process. Some of his knee hairs were too long and resisted the frantic wielding of an ordinary razor when they were wet and soapy, so he gave up with that and waited until his knees had dried off. He then discovered that he had been trying to shave his knees with the razor's cover still on so he had to screw up the letter of complaint he was writing to Gillette moaning about how useless and blunt their razors are.
My female staff suggested that she had a go at his knees with the Whipper-Snipper. I think it's called a "Strimmer" in Britain and a "Weed-Whacker in the USA. Weed Wackner sounds like a euphemism for someone addicted to marijuana to me.
"Oh, you can't believe anything he says, he's a bit of a weed whacker, and I know for a fact that he's been whacking quite a bit of weed lately." In any case, my male staff was none too enamoured with the idea of having his knees whipper snipped and so persevered with a dry razor, this time without the cover and finally met with some success. His knees are now as smooth as a babies bum, and just as dimpled.
I expect you are asking yourself why on earth my male staff would elect to shave his knees. The answer is quite simple. He was told to by a tall, thin, bald man. I met this man in a small room tucked away under a doctors surgery. I went to this place with my male staff. We were told to sit and wait by a lady behind a desk who glared at me disapprovingly, but chose not to say anything because the sign on the door only said "NO DOGS EXCEPT ASSISTANCE DOGS". There was no mention of rodents and she could see that my male staff was the pedantic type who was sure to argue that very point. So while my male staff sat and lethargically leafed through a 1998 deep sea fish magazine (He hates fishing, but since it was a choice between that and a children's booked called "Noddy Does Dallas" or some such thing, the fishing mag got the nod. At least he could look at the adverts for gleaming boats with scantily clad models draped across them.) I mooched about on the floor and found a comfortable corner in which to leave a mound of bush chocolate - my generosity knows no limits.
After what seemed like an eternity we were invited to enter a small cubicle partitioned from the rest of the room by a curtain. From my position, clutched to my male staff's chest I could see a very hard looking bed in the middle of the room with a bum shaped hole at one end. That's handy I thought. Why don't my staff get themselves one of these. It would save them the trouble of getting up in the night to go to the toilet. I was a little alarmed to notice that there was no receptacle under the hole, but the floor beneath it seemed clean enough and there was no smell. Then I saw the afore mentioned tall, thin bald dude. He thrust forward a hand and for a moment I thought he was going to hit my male staff. "That's odd." I thought to myself. "Most people at least wait until they are introduced before they hit my male staff." But he just said "I'm Alec, your fizzy-oh-terrorist." My male staff grabbed the man's hand before it could hit him and gave it a good shake. "That'll teach him" I thought. "He won't mess with my male staff again."
"Now," said Alec. "What shall we do with that?"
"With what?" I thought, and then saw that he was pointing his bony finger at yours truly.
"If it's okay with you I'll put him in your wash basin." Said my male staff. "He can't do any harm in there and the sides are too steep and slippery for him to get out." Then before I could say "You're not going to put me in there you pair of bastards." they'd put me in there. All I could do was make the most of a bad situation. By standing on my hind legs I could at least peer over the rim to see what they were up to. First the fizzy-oh-terrorist got my male staff to lay belly down on the bed so that his face disappeared into the bum shaped hole. "My God!" I thought. "Whatever he's going to do to my male staff is going to make him puke." Then he started bending my male staff's legs this way and that to the accompaniment of various loud clicks and cracks. Then when he was convinced that my male staff was not going to throw up after all the fizzy-oh-terrorist told him to roll over onto his back. There was then more leg twisting and some poking of the knees, and not a little grimacing by my male staff.
"Inflamed tendons." Proclaimed the fizzy-oh-terrorist. "I have to strap your knees to take the pressure off them. You'll have to shave them first though because the tape won't stick very well to the hairs. Come back tomorrow when you've shaved your knees and I'll strap you up." And that was it. Five minutes later we were back in the Getz driving home, and all the while I'm thinking what a naive being my male staff is. He's going to shave his legs just because some tall, thin, bald guy tells him to. How does he know it's not just a big joke. The tall, thin, bald guy might do this kind of thing all the time so that the people in town get a good laugh when they see his victims in the street.
"Ha ha ha!" People will say as they nudge each other. "Look, that silly old bugger over there has shaved his legs, he must have been to see Alec."
Ha ha ha! Herr Billy's male staff is not beink very bright. Fancy fallink for zat alt vun.
"You must go avay und be shavink your legs mein freund. Und zen you must be comink back here ven you haf done it."
Ich vunder how many dumkopfs der fizzy-oh-terrorist has caught mit zat vun.