Yes,Vagina, There Is A Santa Claus
|Seriously, I did not originate that headline. |
Clearly, I have nothing against vaginas, since I wrote articles talking about how women were using evolution to create two vaginas and enchant twice as many men at the same time and how the new James Bond got that job thanks to the magic of Sienna Miller's career-enhancing vagina but I am not completely obsessed with them either.
I actually kind of wish I had written that headline but, no, it was written in something called "The OC Weekly" - "O.C." is what Orange County people would like to be called, because it sounds cooler than Orange County. It's still a lame cousin to L.A. - heck, even the Angels changed their name to "Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim" to avoid the Orange County stigma.
But even if the place is lame the writer for the magazine came up with a pretty good article. I don't usually endorse other articles here because that would cost me my $.05 on Google AdSense - and I will need to buy a DVD some time in 2009 so I really need that money. But with a subtitle like "Even for battle-worn sluts, genitals are a difficult thing to contend with" it's bound to be a pretty good read.
Why didn't I talk about this before Christmas, you ask? I was doing medical research in Tempe, AZ at the Heart Attack Grill. Why? Because some people complained about heart attacks so the Arizona Attorney General asked me to come in and investigate if the food was really that dangerous. Well, it wasn't the Quadruple Bypass Burger or the Flatliner Fries cooked in pure lard that was the culprit, it was the fact that all of the waitresses dress like this:
Yes, they are dressed like nurses. I guess people were having heart attacks because they didn't want to damage the self esteem of these girls by not keeling over.
Anyway, I am back now, and wanted to be the first to bring you this outstanding "Yes, Vagina, There Is A Santa Claus" article so here is a blurb:
Being friends with your exes is generally not encouraged, but it can result in worthy elucidations of your character. Or your genitals.
“I need you to tell me what my vagina looks like,” I instant message my most significant and trusted ex-boyfriend.
His reply blinks on my screen a few seconds later: “Uhhh . . . like a beautiful flower?”
“Less gay,” I implore.
“A carburetor,” he deadpans, doubtlessly tittering over the slope of whichever bong is obscuring his computer screen.
And then he adds:
“If this is about, ‘Do I need a labiaplasty?’ . . . the answer is no.”
Go read the rest on your own time.