humans are funny

Category: vaginas

  • Hair today. Gone tomorrow.

    I wouldn’t say my mom is a hoarder. She’s more of a connoisseur of collecting. She’s organized about it. And there aren’t boxes obstructing the walkways in our house. But if I tell her that I really wish I could find the pink spandex outfit I wore in the fourth grade talent show or if I asked her if she still has that mug she got from the restaurant where she worked in 1978, the answer would be the same: it’s in the garage. Our garage has been home to old lawnmowers, bike pumps that don’t work, hoes (the garden kind), rusty tools (the garden kind), things seen on TV that only work on TV, sometimes a car, and thousands upon thousands of nostalgic relics.

    Since my mom is trying to sell the house, she’s been cleaning out the garage and saying goodbye to the past. Therefore, I’ve been the lucky receiver of several boxes full of stuff. The most recent box housed a book we read together in third grade, a manuscript she wrote in 1983 (It’s amazing, written on a typewriter, and totally publishable.), and a HUSTLER magazine from 1976.

    I know what you’re thinking: What kind of articles are in that 1976 HUSTLER magazine? Well, there’s a profile on Doyle Brunson, the world’s greatest poker player at the time. There’s a story called ‘The Fiend’ by Charles Bukowski. And there are jokes like, “The HUSTLER dictionary defines a cheap loser as a guy who fucks an old whore, turns the rubber inside out, fucks her again, and catches the clap.”

    Man, after the seventies, clap jokes really fell off.

    I cannot get over the sex pots of this magazine. Of course their makeup and shoes contrast the recent, but the actual bodies look almost alien compared to those of today. Because they’re real. There are no implants or photoshop in this HUSTLER and, actually, there don’t seem to be any razors either. It’s just a real celebration of the female body. The real, natural female body. I just happened to have a HUSTLER from 2011 in my possession (the articles!), so I compared. Photoshop plus the melange of treatments we give our bodies to remove our hair or bleach our assholes or tighten our vaginas or re-size our nipples or lift our faces just make us seem so… fake. I bet if a Hustler model from today walked onto a HUSTLER shoot from 1976, people would scream, poke at her boobs in fear, and then fuck her (because, come on… It’s a HUSTLER shoot).

    I vowed recently to stop writing about vaginas because I am more than a mere vagina writer, but there’s no way to look at a HUSTLER without commenting on the vag-er-oos. The ones from 1976 are basically nests of hair with a tiny bit of pink poking through. It’s a hair parade. In fact, I thought for a minute this was a magazine you get at the hair salon to showcase all the new styles. Hair. And it’s not even pruned around the edges for easy swimsuit wear. We’ve been convinced in the last few decades to think that hair is bad, but these women don’t seem to mind it. It’s natural. It’s part of the human body. While the vaginas of today are completely bald, they’re also so unnaturally monochrome that they look like plastic copies of pre-pubescent vaginas. They’ve been so photoshopped or bleached or chopped that even real fourteen-year-old girls probably think these vaginas look young.

    I’ve known for a while that we’ve been creating this unattainable ideal, but putting these magazines side by side actually scared me. We have trained society to beat off to something that doesn’t even exist naturally. There is so much plastic and fakery in these HUSTLER bodies that I barely see a difference between jerking off to them or a mailbox. Or a set of forks. Or a Conair 1800-watt blowdryer with retractible cord. I not only fear for women who see this stuff and feel like beauty is unattainable, I fear a constant disappointment. This and every other magazine is teaching men to be attracted to something other than the natural female body, which seems a bit counterproductive to procreation.  Eve: Let’s fill the earth with the fruit of our loins. Adam: I’m actually not really feeling it. But maybe if you shove some plastic bags filled with silicone under your nipples, get laser hair removal, and cut an inch off your labia minora.

    Oh, humans are funny. I hope this is just a phase and we can all soon go back to appreciating what we already have. I am oddly okay with a good wax though. Just to better see the goods. Show the goods! The real ones.

  • My love purse is a penny pincher

    Some people in Venice who see me often may not believe I shower every day. But I do. And today I was sudsing up when, clink, a penny fell out of nowhere. It dropped like soap onto my shower floor.

    This freaked me out. It’s not like there are shelves overhead where I keep my wallet or bowls of coins. It’s a shower.
    Then I remembered what I’d read the other day. I haven’t told anyone this yet, but I have some severe brain swelling, encephalitis, and the mumps. According to WebMD. And when I added some abdominal cramping to my list of symptoms on that site, the internet doctor also diagnosed me as possibly having foreign objects in my vagina.

    Yes, WebMD actually hypothesized that I unknowingly had foreign objects in my vagina.

    I used this as a joke in my stand-up routine on Sunday. I said that I usually know when there’s a foreign object in my vagina. Except that one time I found forty-eight cents and a Tonka truck. People laughed. It was a jolly good time.

    But that was a joke. I was jesting.

    And today this penny came raining down out of nowhere. Or out of somewhere?
    Was it my vagina’s way of telling me that maybe I do have forty-eight cents up there and I should get that checked out? I have to admit, I would have preferred fifty cents in the form of two quarters so I could do one-third load of laundry, but I’ll take whatever coins I can get. I like coins. I especially like coin purses– the ones you squeeze on the sides and they open like a mouth OR VAGINA! Holy shit. My vagina is a coin purse (or meat wallet, if you will). I did a quick shower jig, but no other coins fell. One fucking cent? Is my love purse a penny pincher?

    I stayed in the shower for quite some time shaving my legs (It’s May– time for the semi-annual leg shave.) and pondering my frugal finger hut.  As I ran the razor above my ankle, I noticed a small circle. It looked just like ringworm. I know because I had ringworm once in junior high. I got it because I was on the wrestling team and must have started watching 90210 when I got home from practice instead of immediately showering off the dirty mat juices. I ran through all the places where I could have contracted ringworm this time. I haven’t been wrestling. I haven’t been anywhere particularly seedy lately, although I did roll down a hill the other day.

    I was scared to see what WebMD would have to say about my fungal infection and stingy collection of vaginal coins. But as I toweled off, I realized the raised skin circle was exactly the size of a penny.
    Oh.
    I probably slept with a penny stuck to my leg all night. Abraham Lincoln somehow got into my sweatpants and suctioned himself to my leg.

    This should have made me feel better. It didn’t. I feel even dirtier, ashamed that my cleaning standards would allow a random coin into my sweatpants! Gross. How did that happen? I think I liked it better when I had ringworm and a piggy bank pussy.

  • Vaginas! Vaginas! Everywhere!

    I went to a club again. Ugh. I was that 30-year-old I used to make fun of when I was 20. I stuck out, in that black-lit lounge, due to the existence of my self esteem and my non-revealing outfit. I don’t even know how I got in. This was some ‘really cool’ place where you have to know someone who knows the president to get in. The kind of place that delights in turning innocent men away at the door. The kind of place that plays ‘Baby Got Back’ and lines the walls with grody rich men and their bottles. The kind of place that’s ‘so cool’ some people’s egos actually burst when they walk through the door. When they let me right in, I even accidentally said ‘That’s how it’s done, bitch.’ Gross. I went for a birthday party, and it confirmed for me the fact that I will never ever ever step foot in one of these places again. Because I’m just too old. And uncool. And I’d rather spend my nights talking with people who know what it’s like to pay their own rent or have heard of things like politics, Panama, or pants.

    I wasn’t always so uncool and interested in men who could talk about more than the alphabet. Let’s take a look at how hip I actually was back when I used to laugh at thirty-year-olds:


    One day back at the turn of the century, when I was living off my stash of unused Y2K supplies, I actually requested that someone document this getup. I wanted to remember just how alluring I looked in these stylish high-waisted pleather slacks that tapered lovingly towards the ankle. And of course the classy bikini-ish top with extra expensive wrap strings. Hot hot hot. Lastly, I couldn’t dare forget the mushroom haircut, which I have to brag is not that far from that of Anna Wintour (if the lady is so fashionable, why does she have my Y2K hairdo?).

    I’ll admit it. I met truckloads of men wearing this outfit. Men love pleather, let me tell you. The dapper clubgoing man can’t resist a mushroom ‘do atop a boobless bikini top. Worked like a charm, as I met quality man after quality man who would buy me a Red Bull and offer me capfuls of GHB by the bathroom. Ah, those were the days. The days of cutting lines. The days of leaving the house at midnight. The days of going to bed at noon.
    They were fun. They were exciting. They are over.
    Thank the heavens, they are over.

    I realize they are not over for some. I know there are twenty-year-olds out there who feel the same desire I used to feel: to get into hot spots with fake IDs and get phone numbers and try to go on dates with anyone in some sort of circle with any celebrity, even if it means the cousin of the neighbor of that guy, Buddy, from Charles in Charge. Celebrity Adjacent works. I get it. I had different goals then, as the twenty-year-olds of today do.

    But there is an epidemic among these clubgoing girls, and I must reach out to them. I must get in touch with their poor souls and tell them that what they’re doing is unnecessary. This epidemic is sweeping Hollywood, and I’m shocked at how little press it’s getting. It’s the plague of the streetwalkers. It’s Anna Wintour’s fault, I assume. Somebody started a trend, and I’m guessing it’s her. Judging by my photo, I don’t exactly follow fashion. But someone… some powerful jerkwad told these young girls they should try their best to look like successful street walkers and then manufactured “dresses” out of napkins.


    It’s gross. I have never seen so many almost-labia in my life. These vaginas are barely dressed and able to peek out without notice. GIRLS! I can see your perineum when you dance. Stop it. Just stop it.

    Clubgoers, beware! Vaginal fluids are splashing like lazy martinis all over the dance floor and we ALL MUST BE AWARE. These dresses of today are too small to be called dresses. These dresses of today are too small to be called shirts. This is a tragedy! Anna Wintour, please help.


    I saw this one in leopard print at the club. I’m guessing she got free drinks. And a venereal disease.

    I realize that these ho costumes are just an updated version of my pleather, so I would like to tell these girls from experience: don’t do it. These outfits will only get you dates with drug dealers, men who drive Beamers but live with their parents, and guys who will have sex with you for three months and then disappear (totally guessing on that last one.).

    But who am I to teach lessons? Everyone has to learn for herself. My mom told me not to wear pleather, and look where it got me: wearing pleather. So I shall stop acting old. I shall stop judging and preaching. I will be silent and hold onto the hope that by the time I have a daughter who is of age to hit the clubs, Polygamist Sect Skirts will be all the rage. Anna, you have about thirty years to make this happen. Do it.

    Oh! Gotta go. Matlock is starting.

  • It’s not a tunnel.

    It is cockroach’s job to taunt me. Like Navy Seals, they find me in the night. But like a trained sniper, I find them first. My keen eyes search them out before they attack me and slip into my vagina, my biggest fear.

    I hate them, those shiny little fuckers. They can outrun me, they can slip through any teeny crack, and they can live through a nuclear blast. I fear them more than anything.

    Yet I just spent a week in the jungle of Laos surrounded by ruthless roaches, mosquitoes drunk on malaria, and squirmy leeches. I made it out with a roach-free vagina. I think. Stories to come…