I watched 25% of the vagina monologues.

I watched 25% of the vagina monologues.

I like performances to know what they're getting at. So when an entire act is an ode devoted to a pervert named Bob who worshiped women's vaginas by staring at them for hours, the play is probably unaware of what its own message really is. Something about reclaiming femininity. (It was lost?)  

To disinterested men like me, however, its theme is clear: Nah-nah! Our vaginas are cooler than your smelly dicks. Pshaw, I say! You might as well run a laugh track over Schindler's List. Having a dong kicks ass; in fact, that’s why you produced this play. Because you know that, anatomically speaking, ya got the short end. What this theatrical drivel really is is a bunch of vagina Celts wardancing before their battle against Phallic Rome. It boosts morale, but the resistance is still doomed from the get-go. You’ll recite your useless vaginal voodoo and stick pins in penis figurines. Maybe afterwards, you’ll direct The Clitoris Strikes Back in 3D. It won’t change the truth, which is that having a dick takes zero effort and is superior in every way.

If you’re passing a children’s hospital and you notice a fire on the exterior of the Newborns wing, can you brandish your vagina and put it out? No, because your vagina aims like James Bond in Goldeneye 64. For Christ’s sake, you’d burn several hundred calories struggling to write your name down in the snow with it. I, on the other hand, can target the precise location of any fire and extinguish it at once. And concerning writing my name in the snow using urine, I’m probably the most talented person in the world. One time I reproduced the entire Declaration of Independance (signatures included) with my piss. Moving to the constitution, I wrote most of the amendments in WingDings. Vaginas cannot do that because they’re structurally inconvenient.

Don’t you bleed out of it for like, three weeks or something? And there’s all these esoteric creams and brushes and tropical fragrance wipes. I think tampons are spiked with acid -- it explains the frightening psychological intensity of modern women. Walking around with a plastic dildo in your vagina for a week while bleeding and tripping balls? Must do wonders for the psyche.  I’m surprised I never see you flagellating yourselves.

Don’t get me wrong: I think vaginas are awesome. But that’s because I have a penis, making me impervious to SO many sexual annoyances. Vaginas, for example, consistently make men happy. But some cocks are so tiny that Plankton from Spongebob has a better chance of hittin’ dat shit juss right. We’re satisfied after one orgasm (usually), but the hunger of the cunt rages until it has consumed the entire world. If we ejaculate too soon, you shake us like we’re vending machines that ate your change. Inevitably, you’ll seek gratification elsewhere.  So it follows that while a dog is man’s best friend, a woman’s is an adjustable and removable showerhead. (That's why the water bill is so high...)

Pregnancy? Vaginas. The threat of impending rape? Vaginas. Surprise yeast infections? Poonani. But as for men? We walk around HOPING a woman rapes us in an alleyway, preferably if she’s a brunette with killer sex moves and a rope. Regrettably, This almost never happens. Really, really regrettably.

I thank God for blessing me with the lifestyle of phallus ownership.