Friday, December 8, 2006

Study your anatomy, then talk amongst yourselves…

Just as I was about the step into the shower this morning, I realized my car was parked on the “Friday” side of the street. I swear, the topic of street cleaning always occurs to me at the strangest moments. Anyway, I threw on my long house robe and scuttled outside in my Chinese slippers to repark. As I made my way to my car, a gust of wind tugged at my robe front, and, well…let’s just say, if my early morning neighbors were enjoying their AM coffee by their windows, they got a little show. (Sadly, I got no tips.) It immediately occurred to me that perhaps next Friday, when I go through this ritual again, I should put on some underwear first.

Which is precisely why I’m appalled at all of the media chatter about Britney’s recent genetalia exposé debacle. What’s all the fuss about? Apparently, she’s been caught prancing around town with her “vagina” in full view on more than one occasion of late. This I learned from The Brit yesterday, much to my surprise. (Surprised because neither one of us can claim to have, shall we say, a finger on the pulse of Hollywood. At least not as closely as say, the wrinkled, albeit neatly manicure, finger of the repeatedly nipped and tucked Joan Rivers.)

There are a few points I’d like to make about Britney’s ladyflaps:

First of all, if you don’t want to see them, stop shoving a camera in her crotch.

Second of all, regarding the use of the word “vagina” to describe which part of her anatomy we are all being blessed with a panoramic of…I can assure you, unless she is also walking around with a speculum stuck up there, we are not seeing her vagina. More likely her labia majora. And perhaps, but only with a telephoto zoom lens, a good angle, and some planetary-aligning luck for being in the "right" place at the right time, only then perhaps her whole vulva. But certainly not her vagina, people. (Anatomy is fun. Study harder.)

Third of all, if Britney were embarrassed about being so exposed, it would have occurred to her, as it did to me this morning, to put on some friggin’ underwear. The fact that she hasn’t can mean only one thing. She wants you to see her snatch. Wooptidoo. Chics expose their beavers all the time in Playboy (and plenty of other equally reputable mags). I’m sure some of them have children at home too. Are we slaughtering their coochies as publicly and caustically?

So there. Look at it in all it’s hairless glory and appreciate it for what it is. Or don’t look at it. Either way, who cares.

Right. Off to go fight breast cancer. (Shall I wear underwear today? Hmmm...)

2 comments:

Mr. Poopie said...

He he . . . the one chance you had to get your nic-name changed to "la chuchona", nobody was looking.

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