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Ass (zh: Ѡ) usually refers to a person's buttocks; a gathering of fat and muscle (mostly fat) upon which people sit. The most important part of the ass, the asshole is where faggots love the cock. Other individuals have ass fetishes and spend countless hours admiring photographs, artwork and depictions of the human ass and cumfarts.
The ass in other languages
The English add a completely superfluous "r" to the word, in honor of their long history of ass piracy. Thus in their crazy moon-language, ass is written "arse." You should point out their mistake at every opportunity - it's the only way they'll learn.
Some deny having ass hair, but 95% of anyone over the age of 13 has it. Here is a lulzy story written by a schoolboy on a forum:
Don't Shave That Hair!!!
My friend recently made a mistake in his life, and I offer his story to you, that you may learn from my error. It all started, as many things do, with him having trouble dumping. These are in his words. I tried to clean it up some.
No, I was not constipated; this was not a regularity problem but a matter of technique. It seems my butt-hair had grown to such a length that tiny grogans were constantly getting tied up in the matted jungle between my cheeks. It led to much frustration, with me KNOWING that I still had something to drop, but unable to shake the tenacious turd loose from its butthair dwelling. Eventually I would have to do two things: either reach down with some paper and try to pinch off the lingering loaf (which required careful precision to avoid smearing the creature all over my rear, especially since I had no way of seeing what I was doing) or just go for broke, start wiping, and hope that I could remove all the leftover fecal matter before the toilet paper reached its Can't-Be-Flushed threshold.
I was contemplating this problem, when I had what seemed at the time to be a bright idea. "Hey! This is my butt and my butt-hair, right? So why don't I just eliminate all the hair, and then my grogans will flow out like beer from a keg!" I said to myself. It is a statement that will go down in history with a lot of other regretted statements. "How many Indians could there be?" said by General Custer. "Looks like a good day for a drive!" by JFK. "There! America On-Line now has complete Usenet access!" by some idiot system tech. Such was my anal shaving idea.
I performed the operation that night, with a cheap disposable razor and a towel to sit on. Starting from the bottom, and shaving from the crack to the cheeks, I began the arduous process of ridding my butt of hair. Occasionally, I would have to clean the razor of accumulated hair and miscellaneous slime, which I did by wiping it on the towel. Slowly, my twin mounds and the between-ravine began to resemble the hairless cheeks of a newborn baby. Finally, I wiped the razor one last time, and surveyed my work. The towel was covered with a pile of hair. My cheeks were smooth as ivory. I smiled, satisfied, thinking my troubles were over.
Little did I know.
I now have a great respect for anal-hair. Like everything in this world God created, it has its mighty purpose in existence. It was only after I had removed it that I started to learn how much I had been taking it for granted. For one, it provides friction. I learned this the next day, when I walked out into the sun heading for class. After climbing two flights of stairs and starting to sweat, I started to notice something unpleasant. The sweat was accumulating in my crack, and was causing the unpleasant sensation of my two cheeks sliding past each other with every step. I thought about going to the bathroom and wiping it off, but had to get to class. Eventually, I thought, it would dry.
Unfortunately, it did dry, but only after mingling with the microscopic turd-molecules lingering around my brown starfish. When I stood up after class, my cheeks were stuck together with a slimy sticky brown/sweat combination. As I made my way back to my dorm, it started to itch. It felt like a swarm of ants was making its way up and down my crack. Fighting to keep from jamming my hand down there and scratching away, I rushed back to the dorm.
Unfortunately again, this exertion caused me to sweat, and when I finally reached my room, my cheeks were sliding back and forth against each other like a pair of horny cane toads. I quickly dropped my pants, and attempted to dry my crack off by sticking it in front of a fan and spreading my cheeks. As I pulled the two mounds of flesh apart, a horrible stench burst free and filled the room. Every dog within a 4 block radius started to howl. I had it worst of all, as the ripe aroma of festering poop/sweat went into the fan and blew back into my face. I fought to keep from heaving. And as I sat there, fighting vomit, my cheeks spread and dripping, with the concentrated aroma of my body odor mixed with the tangy smell of my own turds blowing right into my face, I had only one thought: "It will be like this until the hair grows back. Weeks."
Later on, trying to deal as best I could, wiping at every opportunity, I discovered another wonderful use for this hair - ventilation. I attempted to launch a fart, only to have it get stuck between my cheeks. Apparently, with no hair, the two pink twins can get vacuum sealed together, and the result was a frustrating fart that slid up and down between my cheeks like a lost gerbil.
As if that wasn't enough, I whistled for a cab and when it came near the license plate said "Fresh" and it had dice in the mirror. If anything I could tell that this cab was rare but I thought "Nah, forget it, go home to Bel-Air!" I pulled up to a house about 7 or 8 and I yelled to the cabbie "Yo Homes, smell you later!" I looked at my kingdom, I was finally there, to sit on my throne, as the king of Bel-Air.
Friends: DON'T SHAVE YOUR BUTT HAIR!
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