Ellen hates hair. Any hair. And let me tell you, being Italian means she knows a lot about hair removal. Bikini lines, mustache, chin hairs, armpits so virile they must be shaved twice a day, and most importantly, eyebrows. I didn't realize it until today, but my girl has eyebrows that would do a muppet proud. Now, guys out there will be going "yeah, so?", but there's not a woman reading this who doesn't know the solution to that particular problem. Say it with me ladies... "WAX!!!"

Ellen doesn't wax, she "sugars". To a man, sugar is something you put in coffee, or glaze a donut with. Let me tell you fellas, women know how to do some perverted sh*t with our favorite confection. Now, if they were to just stay in the bathroom for an hour and a half, with only the occasionally "motherf*kerSONOFAB*TCH!!!" echoing down to us we would all remain blissfully ignorant, even grateful that we don't end up forced to eat hairball remedy on occasion. But no, dear god no, we're not given that option.

Well, some of us aren't. You see, your hero here was blessed with, shall we say, "ample" eyebrows. Is it my fault Ellen keeps calling me "Bert"? Is it my fault I can do a convincing imitation of caveman with no makeup assistance? IS IT MY FAULT CATERPILLERS TRY TO SLEEP ON MY FOREHEAD?!?

No, I tell you, no. And yet, Ellen insists I must have two, count them two, eyebrows. "NO MORE MIDDLE MAN!" she said ominously as she trooped up to the bathroom. See, I figured the reason we got "sugar" (womanspeak for 'small container of boiling lead') was so she could "sculpt" her own eyebrows. And, at least for a few minutes, that's exactly what happened.

The first sign of trouble was when the cats, male cats mind you, fled in terror down the stairs like animals in a Warner Bros. cartoon fleeing the Tasmanian Devil. During the pause, I could almost see the mist start pouring down, an evil vapor that always precedes one's doom.

And there she was, hazel eyes aglow, jar in one hand, a stick and some paper in the other. "THERE CANNOT BE ONLY ONE" she rumbled as she levitated down the stairs.

"No vile witch! No I tell you! My brow is my strength!" I cried.

"Oh hold still you big baby", she said as she sat on me.

"NNGGgggghzzz!!!" was all I could manage as she troweled on the foul sticky substance between my eyes. Faster than an executioner's ax a strip of paper was pressed on and then with the suddenness of the blade my strength, my very personality, was ripped away from me.

"See? That wasn't too bad, was it?"

Swear to god, I figured she had the front of my skull hanging from that paper as I opened my eyes. "Look at this! The cat's ass isn't this hairy! Nasty!" she said as she showed me what, I must admit, looked for all the world like a caterpillar trapped in amber. But, I thought to myself, at least it's over.

Then she got out the tweezers.

Ok guys, Satan doesn't have a pitchfork. Trust me, I know this. He has a tiny pair of metal tongs, and he'll come at you between your eyes. How do I know? One of his minions sat on me like an enraged fury and plucked, bit by bit, even the tiniest hint of a hair that might lie in the middle of my face."I'm sculpting, damn you! Hold still!" said the halo-haired demon astride me. "Dammit! They're not even! BE STILL!"

I didn't care. I'd rather have the cats pounce on my bladder in the middle of the night than go through more of that just so I'll be pretty.

I mean, now that she's pregnant, her farts alone are enough to bald the cats. So take this as a warning, my fellow men. If the wife decides it's time to "sugar", or "wax", she's not talking about baking, and she's not talking about shining the car. Do yourself a favor and head toward the nearest pub or bar.

Because the alternative is just too frightening to even consider.