I Grab a Pussy

October 9, 2016

Go ahead, unfriend me. The truth is I grab a pussy three to six times a day. What’s more, the pussy likes it. Is it wrong? Wrong that the palavering, palpitating, polycrotic pussy purrs? Wrong that the pussy gently nibbles my digit?

So what word do we need to substitute now that “pussy” is passé? “Vagina willow?” “Genital Galore?” “Josie and the Vulva Cats?”

And here’s what really galls me: It took a Bush to take down a bat shit cray-cray billionaire.

I love Bush’s Baked Beans. They’re yummy, and post-feast, they’re potent, noisy, nosey. Past tense: I LOVED Bush’s Baked Beans. Now I can’t put a spoonful of Bush in my mouth without thinking about uh, women’s Area 51’s.

My pussy – my gender-bent, gesticulating, jester-centric genitalcat – carries a string around in its mouth. It throws the string into the air and pounces on it. It drops the string into its water bowl after every play date. It screams for its maw to be filled with raw spinach. It climbs into my hiking boots – Genital-in-Boots.

Aughhhhhhhhhhhh!

Ladies, I don’t mean to go down on you in a negative way. It’s just that political correctness long ago destroyed men’s sense of self-worth. We have suffered from bad badinage since the birth of literature. In short: the penis. “Prick,” “schlong,” “thing,” “thumper,” “dick,” “wang,” “bat and balls,” “up and comer,” “erector set,” “mama’s boy,” “juicer,” “flaccid Fred,” “external hard drive,” “dong,” “ram-a-ram-a-my-ding-dong,” “that’s entertainment,” “going my way,” “rod,” “little rascal,” “snake,” “night crawler,” “whirly-gig,” “redhead.”

Pre-debate Hillary on her campaign bus: “I’d like to grab Chuck Todd’s p—k and pound my p—y with it.”

(Pause, as I wipe away my tears.)

(Pause, as you wipe away your tears.)

(Pause, as renegade clowns wipe away their tears of a clown’s.)

This is the start of the long road to Hell. Next comes “tit.” “Fake tits” (D. Trump), “Tufted titmouse,” “titillating,” “titivate,” “titter,” “tittup,” “titubation.” Teehee? I don’t think so.

What up? Is this the death of language?

“Here, and it goes on to appear now, she comes, a peacefugle, a parody’s bird, a peri potmother, a pringlpik in the ilandiskippy, with peewee and powwows in beggybaggy on her bickybacky and a flick flask fleckflinging its pixylighting pacts’ huemeramybows, picking here, pecking there, pussypussy plunderpussy.” James Joyce, “Finnegan’s Wake”

Nah.

(I write this, with a striped, breathing, farting, dreaming, snoring pussy on my lap.)

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