Aside from writing this filthy little column, one of my many side jobs is as an event coordinator for an outdoor music and arts festival called San Diego IndieFest (SDIF). The producers of SDIF, Danielle LoPresti and Alicia Champion, are two deeply committed, commie, lefty, pinko socialist, community-organizing-activist guerrilla-types who rage against the enemies of gay rights, feminism, environmentalism and independent arts.
I admire these guerls and respect all their causes, with the exception of one that I find particularly annoying. I’m talking about their campaign to abolish the word “pussy” (as it pertains to weakness or fragility). So devoted are they to this cause that they scold me every time I use it in their presence, which is often because Alicia happens to be a fan of Bostonian sporting outfits, and if there’s one word that describes the players or fans of Bostonian sports, it’s the P-word—and I don’t mean pugnacious.
This has been an ongoing battle. For instance, during the last days before SDIF 7 launched—when we were pulling the hairs out of our heads and getting on each other’s nerves—Alicia told me she wouldn’t be able to update the beer-garden map because she was overworked and sleep-deprived and on the verge of murdering someone’s face.
“It’s crunch time, yo!” I responded. “Don’t be such a pussy!”
“Edwin,” she said, the low, rumbling tone of her voice indicating that it might be my face that gets murdered. “Don’t you remember? You are not to use the P-word to connote weakness.” Behind her was Danielle, a zesty Sicilian pomadoro, wagging her finger and glaring, as if to say, “We told you this before, dickhead!”
“Aaah, don’t get your labia all in a lurch,” I implored. “It’s just a word—a funny word—that I use from time to time. It don’t mean nuthin’.”
“Well, the way you use it is bogus,” Alicia said.
“Why is that?”
“Because ‘pussy,’” Danielle interjected, “is the strongest thing on planet Earth.”
“Oh fer crine out loud!” I said. “Exaggerate much?”
“Just contemplate the fact that nearly every person comes through this pathway,” she ovulated—wildly waving her Sicilian arms like an airport semaphore directing a passenger jet around a stampede of rhinos. “Think of all the squeezing and stretching in order for our fat heads to get through. Ponder all the wars won and lost, the civilizations built and destroyed, the art, music and poetry composed for the divine coochachi! If you want to compliment someone on their strength, resilience, magic and mystery, that’s when you call them a ‘pussy.’”
“Don’t get your cervixes all in a cinch,” I snorted, preparing to launch a brilliant comeback. “It just so happens that, that—.” But nothing came out. No sarcastic retort, stupefying anecdote, nor profound analogy to debunk her case. What she said made sense—a fact I found infuriating because, and I’ve said this before, I am really, truly, honestly, ever-so-godforsakenly tired—exhausted, actually—of having my beloved repertoire of insult words diminished by a culture-full of commie, lefty, pinko socialist, community-organizing censorship activists.
However, my colleagues make a valid point. The vagina is hardly a pussy.
Wikipedia defines “vagina” as “a fibromuscular tubular tract leading from the uterus to the exterior of the body.” The word “vagina” comes from Latin meaning “sheath” or “scabbard.” I can attest to the fibromuscular part. I once had sex with a woman who nearly killed my penis with her vulvovaginal muscles. Initially, everything was fine—great, even—until she climaxed. Then her body tensed and her vagina—as if having just discovered that my penis had murdered her brother for political gain—put both hands around my penis’s neck and began strangling it. When I finally yanked it from the constricting coils of her vaginaconda, it was bloated and purple, like the liver of an alcoholic eggplant.
But what I find most impressive about the aqueduct of Aphrodite, besides, you know, its ability to pass a bloody, howling, clawing, 10-pound demi-demon, is that it is self-sufficient. This mama don’t need no douches or cleanses to ward off bacteria and other germs. She fights her own battles. According to the Wiki, a healthy va-jay-jay is “colonized by a mutually symbiotic flora of microorganisms that protect its host from disease-causing microbes.” In other words, there’s a freaking war going on in there! Like the 300 Spartans at the mountain pass of Thermopylae (literally, “The Hot Gates”) a small, gravely outnumbered collective of enzymes protect it from the onslaught of millions of swarming Persian microbes.
As King Leonidas said at the dawn of battle, “This. Is. Spurta!”
So, yes, ladies, to you I acquiesce. The vagina is a beast! An asskicker. A headknocker. Therefore, with tears in my eyes, I bid thee adieu, P-word. I will never again call Tom Brady a raging pussy; rather, I will call him a weepy hymen. Yes, yes, hymen is the perfect replacement for the P-word. Don’t even try to tell me that thing is strong and resilient. Hymens are the biggest pussies in the human body. Er, I mean, hymens are the biggest hymens in the human body. Sorry, don’t get your pubis all in a pepper now.
Dispel your contempt for this column by writing to email@example.com. Blame firstname.lastname@example.org while you’re at it. Visit edwindecker.com for close-up pictures of orangutan vaginas.