He couldn't help but feel that the culture was spinning away from him. That the zeitgeist was a physical location no longer available on his personal bus route. This was the only explanation for why he now found himself standing in the shower dragging a double-edged razor across his crotch and balls. The fact that he had no idea how to properly do what he was doing did not slow his hand. The fact that he might cut some vital artery and bleed out, or worse, be rushed to the hospital where doctors and nurses would snicker about "the old guy who almost manscaped himself to death," was of little concern. His desire to remain relevant, to feel tethered to reality, had turned him into a twisted, middle-aged version of Lady Macbeth. Instead of obsessively washing his hands and muttering "out, damned spot," he scraped, trimmed and snipped at his '70's bush while chanting "out, old-fashioned testicles!" When he finally finished the job he looked down at the blighted landscape below his belly. He had not seen his groin in this condition since he was a little boy playing with boats in a bathtub. The effect was deeply disorienting. He began to cry for both his long lost youth and a world he no longer felt a part of. Fortunately his wife walked into the bathroom, saw what he'd done, and started crying as well. But her tears were those of joy. "Oh yay!" she exclaimed, "Less spitting and flossing."
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