Are you friends with any couples on Facebook that feel it necessary to show the world how much they love each other? Constantly sending each other love letters for the world to read. Well, my husband and I are friends with THOSE people. Let’s call them Barbie and Ken. Barbie and Ken can make you feel inadequate about your relationship in a mere nanosecond.
We first met Barbie and Ken about 7 years ago. When I first encountered Barbie I was amazed and astonished by her tale. She was a single mother of three who met a man who fell desperately in love with her. They soon married and had two beautiful children of their own; increasing their family size to seven, yes I said SEVEN.
I slowly learned the details of their relationship and was dumbfounded. I asked one day, “What did you cook for dinner last night?” Her reply, “My husband made spaghetti.” I quickly questioned, “Ken cooks?” I proceeded to ask, “Has he always cooked?” Her reply, “Yes, he cooks, cleans, grocery shops, and drops the kids off in the mornings.” My mind was racing. What the hell was this woman saying? Her husband cooks meals, cleans toilets and showers, and handles the kids. How can this be happening? There are men on this planet that know what a toilet brush is for? There are men with brains in their heads that sit on their shoulders and not just in the crotch of their pants? No, it isn’t true. It can’t be.
Where did this man learn to buy more than beer and toilet paper from the grocery store? How can this be true? He must be a genetic mutation of sorts. My husband would sit in a pile of shit swarming with flies if I would allow it. What on earth could this woman possibly be doing to get her husband to do these things? My disbelief was unnerving, dare I say alarming.
She continued to captivate me with stories of the daily tasks that he performs. The final straw broke when she informed me that he coupon-ed! Holy hell, the man clips coupons! It was at that point that the light went on; as though I had been seeing only in black and white for my entire life. Barbie must be some type of sexual savant. Her vagina must be MAGICAL. Perhaps it plays the flute. Her vagina must beckon him like a siren, singing sweet musical notes that fascinate him and force him to coupon until his fingers bleed.
What other possible explanations could there be. Her vagina, I thought, must be like looking directly into the sun. Glowing and bursting until you can bear no more. When she lays in wait for him and slowly opens her thighs, does her vagina release a tractor beam pulling him in like the Star Ship Enterprise? Beaming him up into inter-galactic ecstasy?
I must know how she became the Pied Piper of Pudenda (AKA Private Parts). Did she take lessons? Was her mother a Madam? Was she secretly a stripper that worked her way through college? I sat there at a loss for words. I didn’t even know how to finish the conversation. I was enamored with Barbie.
I myself do all of the cooking, cleaning, and scrubbing of the shit stained toilets, I even mow the fucking lawn. I sat there sadly thinking the only thought I could. My vagina must be BROKEN. There are no musical notes making their way out of my barren hole. I am the opposite of a musician. I am the equivalent of the worst cast off in American Idol history. My poor husband has suffered through years of tone-deaf intercourse. This is obviously why my husband refuses to help out around the house. I have blamed him for years, when in reality it is my damaged, crippled Va-Jay Jay.
It is now my life’s goal to teach my vagina to play the magical flute. At some point I will rule over my husband and watch while he washes shit stained underware and scrubs burnt pots and pans. I will have my revenge. I will become a concert flautist! My vagina will reign supreme.