When I lived with my dad, I was horrified whenever a bathroom cleaning weekend loomed over me. Thankfully it was only every other week, but I still shudder at the thought. Being the eldest, I was burdened with the responsiblity of toilet duty. Whilst my younger sister desiree carried on about her pansy dusting business, I was preparing myself. Equipped with nose plugs, double gloved yellow rubber hands, goggles, toilet brush, sweepa, sponge, and armed with a variety of noxious yet aromatic cleaning solvents, I braved the rank trenches. Clearing the floor really grossed me out the most. See, my dad's balding. Unfortunately, this hair loss affects not only his scalp, but his nether regions as well. Trust me, there's not much else that's more disgusting than being on all fours in a dirty bathroom, sweeping up your father's 2.5 inch kinky and sometimes graying pubes. Actually, what's nastier is going to use the toilet, then noticing right before precise ass placement that one of dad's nether hairs has straggled behind and is clinging to the seat for all its dear life. And taking a shower was no treat either. I always had to spend a few minutes prepping the shower facilities until I felt it was safe for me to enter. I'd inspect the perimeter, flushing away all remnants of dad et al. with water. Shampoo bottle? Check. Conditioner? Check. Don't want any of them nasties accidently being lathered into my head. Soap? Check. Please. Don't wanna be rubbing any of dad's pubes all over myself. And the ordeal is yet to be finished. Although I have rinsed away the little critters from the tub and walls, they have not travelled down the drain and out of my life. No, there's a hair trap so I still gotz ta take care of business that has collected at the supposed exit. So, not unlike a brain surgeon with the steadiest of hands after years and years of medical practice, I grab a couple q-tips and chopstick those suckahs out of the drain and out of my life forever. Good riddance you little fuckers.