I Got Yer Monologue Right Here, Sweetheart

I haven’t done any sacred-cow tipping lately. Let’s see what is in the grab bag for this month…

Oh. Yes, here we go.

It’s February and as we all know this is the month when women expect to be showered with candy, flowers or overpriced stuffed animals just for remaining in a relationship with a hapless and pathetic man. People lose their minds about this stupid “holiday” when it’s merely a fake occasion designed to offer a boost to the card companies.

But of note this month is an irritating leftist/feminist tradition which makes the already insufferable Valentine’s Day into something insidious - a special sort of hell for someone like me (an admitted and proud chauvinist, sexist and elitist). As anyone who has been to college can probably guess, I refer to the VAGINA MONOLOGUES (no link for you harridans) which are routinely performed on and around the tritely re-classed V-Day (against “Violence” natch). Quite often, extra credit is given for attending a performance. Oh, the empowering ability of women to discuss their genitalia in public, vulgarly and at length, never fails to excite the noble egalitarian spirit. It might even stop the Super Bowl from making men beat their wives…one far-away day.

Who gets off on this? I mean, do women really get an insidious glee from talking about their vagina? You think the discomfort people feel when you say “vagina” has anything to do with their aversion to a strong woman reclaiming her power? Then you’re functionally retarded. The reason people cringe when you say these words in public is because it is rude. Not just rude, but crude and beneath anyone’s dignity. Supposedly educated women revel in this event. Of course it’s shocking when you say this stuff out loud – because nobody wants to goddam hear it, ma’am.

"I Remember the First Time I Discovered My Hoo-Hoo..."

When they aren’t debasing themselves with vulgarity, these women revel in a sort of infantile reverence for their <insert your favorite lady-crotch epithet here>. Really, it’s kind of Freudian in a way. But again, we come to the same basic question of “Who wants to hear any of this?” Quite frankly what goes on between you and your [expletive deleted] is private and probably not very glamorous most of the time.

Does it all go back to sexuality? Guess what, you can’t be a sexual persona to every person. To some (most) people you are just “that old lady.” To someone who cares, I bet your genitals are pretty darn awesome even if you are nearer 70 than 60. Well, good, but why make me think about them??

Maybe I’m just their target demographic. Maybe it’s not about empowering themselves, but driving someone like me to 1. distraction and 2. vomit.

Mission Accomplished.

At any rate, for this Valentine’s Day I exhort you to treat these harpies with all the contempt they deserve.

 Before anyone castigates me for my corrosive, reactionary opinions about this subject, just remind yourself that respect is a two-way street. Don’t talk about your junk, lady. I won’t talk about how thoughts of your junk make me cry inside.

1 comment

  1. christine dewing says:

    Uck, rude, crude, and socially unacceptable bit of monologue unless you’re in a “blue” club (and I think they’re all that way these days). I shudder at the ladies who have taken it to a whole new level and bedazzled themselves. I can’t even spell what they call it.

    [Neal Replies: Mom, I didn't even think about that. You win the comment thread.]

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