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Monday, November 2, 2009

The Automotive Vagina

When you're a teenage boy and, consequently, at least mildly socially retarded, at some point in your high school years you invariably fantasize about what it would be like to be a gynecologist.

At least, I did.

Pussy is on the menu, no matter what the time of day. You think about the mounds of slippery slivers you'd get to prod, sniff, investigate and otherwise infiltrate with a variety of ghoulish looking extensions and implements. You think about what it would be like to be a gynecologist in L.A., where you might get to come face-to-bush with the lauded labias of Hollywood's elite and beautiful. Perhaps a chic office on 5th Avenue for all of the rail-thin, chiseled blonde socialites strutting their stuff down the streets of Manhattan in impossible heels and clenched butt-cheeks.

One day, back when I rode around in an ambulance and called myself a "healthcare professional" I was part of a four-man crew assigned to take a 450-pound black woman home. She lived in a typical Philly rowhome with a set of stairs being the greeting once you got through the front door. We placed the woman in a stair-chair and the four of us lifted her up the stairs-- a painstaking job on a hot, August day that took nearly a forty-five minutes. During this time, I was positioned at the bottom of the chair, and I was at a location that afforded me an unobstructed view of her copious, walrus-like vagina for the entire ordeal.

It was at this moment that I recalled my fleeting adolescent fantasy of what gynecology was like-- an endless stream of well-constructed hot chicks, aged 18-26, walking into a room alone with you and taking off their clothes, spreading themselves before you on an exam table like warm butter on toast.

Ah, boys... Amazing that some of us grow up to become almost human.

Today, while I was reading the New York Times, I came across an article that again reminded me of transporting the fat, black lady home from the hospital, and about gynecology. Strangely enough, it was a car review that brought all this back into my mind.

It was a review for the 2010 Buick LaCrosse.

While the article was positively overflowing with praise (which leads me to believe that the author wrote the review whilst relaxing in a new pair of "Depends") it made me deeply appreciate the peaks and valleys that are inherent in any job, in this case, reviewing cars. I tend to think of reviewing cars for a living as the ideal job for a writer and a car nut, both of which are groups I consider myself a member. Who wouldn't want to take brand-new cars, drive them before anybody else gets a chance to do so, thrash them around racetracks and put them through the paces in heavy metropolitan traffic, spin them around autumnal backroads, and then sit at your desk with your dog snoozing beneath you and a cup of coffee at the ready and clack out a few paragraphs for a handsome fee?

Doesn't that sound like the life to you?

And then I finally understood today, reading the review of what may very well be G.M.'s final, sacrificial offering to the angry Gods of Automobilia, the M.P.G. Wizards of the Underworld, that, for every Audi R-8 and Bentley Convertible and even every Honda Fit and Mazdaspeed 3 or Mini Clubman-- you've got to stick your face right inside the putrid, flabby and, yes, elderly snatch of a Buick.

But that, friends, is just one aspect of occupational life. It's also a solid, timely reminder that no matter how shitty your job is, there's always a fresh, pink, delightfully prim & trimmed vagina lurking somewhere around the corner, if you look for it.


  1. I've found my "vagina."
    It's called retirement.

    Never thought I'd put those two sentences together but there you have it.

  2. That was...surreal. I'm tempted to have your parting words of wisdom there embroidered on a cushion.

    I can't say I ever had the gynaecologist fantasy myself, but I see where you were coming from -- sometimes you eat the bear and sometimes the bear eats you.

  3. Oh, Jay--

    I'm so happy you replied-- only partly so this blog could be graced with the British spelling of gynecologist.

    Reminds me of Monty Python's Long John Silver Impersonators v. Bournemouth Amateur Gynaecologists sketch. Which I'm sure nobody who reads this blog knows about but me.

    Which is as sad a reality as the 2010 Buick LaCrosse.

  4. Ah...the minds of boys. No matter how old, or young, it's all snatch and cars all the time.

  5. I'm pretty sure being a gynecologist would turn me off from sex for life. Glad I didn't choose the profession.

    I did enjoy the "face-to-bush" line.

  6. I really love this post! I've been kind of hating my life lately, and this will no longer occur, as the vagina metaphor will undoubtedly turn my frown upside down!

    on the real though - I have to say that after having recently completed an OB rotation, I pretty much hate vaginas, except for mine, which I love more than ever, because I have yet to spot a single decent looking one... (a colleague told me that pregnancy makes them look so disturbing, but most of them I cannot imagine ever having resembled a normal human body part)

    and I don't even want to get into the scents because I'm already gagging a little

    - also I should probably shut up now, because I think I could get in trouble and/or sued if women thought I was assessing the aesthetics of their nether regions whilst they gave birth


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