An All Seriousness Aside
In Atlantic City, Florida, a woman drove with her niece past the local theater. Noticing on the marquee a rather famous show about womanhood, the girl asked, "What is a Vagina?" The aunt reports that she was a bit uncomfortable with having to answer the question. She undoubtedly believed that this discomfort was caused by an affront to her propriety, though I suspect puritanical reaction is generally a false front, erected to hide inability and/or laziness to think things through, or to think in general.
The feministos on the blogs generally go like, "What's the problem? It's the canal between the vulva and the uterus. She should know about her body. Big deal." As if the niece, being old enough to read and curious enough to ask, wouldn't sit there and wonder, "Okay, why did someone write a play about that?"
So, the aunt did what all folk who are so viciously victimized into using their own brains do; she complained. To the theater owner.
And so now the marquee reads, "The Hoo-haa Monologues".
"Auntie, what's a Hoo-haa?"
"I have no idea."
A solution of blissful ignorance; perfect.
Now, that's funny. The whole story is flat out hilarious, not that my retelling of it helps any. If she'd go see the play, she might learn how to answer the question without getting, shall I say it, all squirmy. I can't take any of it seriously, from the author's goofy tantric celebration of the yoni as a symbol of women's superior spirituality, to the critics' decries of male bashing, to the liberals' indignation that the marquee was changed.
To me, it's just a funny story.
How do people survive without getting the joke? We look at a little baby and wonder what's going on in that precious little head. And then, an amazing thing happens. It laughs. It thrills us to no end to see this, and we make it happen over and over again.
Then what happens?
I'm still that little baby, I guess. This morning, realizing there was no milk for my Wheat Chex and, more seriously, no coffee, I headed out for the store. Actually, I headed for the local diner, and then the store. On the way in, I picked up a weird little local publication called The Beacon. This free paper is about two thirds county board news and such, and about one third humor and satire. Sort of a Mayberry Gazette meets The Onion. After reading all about the winter carnival's plans to proceed with or without winter, I turned to the back, and Dave Barry.
Since Dave retired more or less from thinking up funny stuff in his underwear, the column may been a rerun, but I don't remember having seen it. It was all about fat-free America and soy ranchers and veggie burgers and I chuckled right along as I ate my #1 with wry toast. He said we don't eat ants because they are considerably more fat free than cows and well, you had to be there. In fact here is there, if you like. (sorry if the link has grown old)
At the end he adds:
POSTSCRIPT - After I wrote this column, my editor, Tom Shroder, sent me a note saying he thinks he read somewhere that ants do contain fat. I think he's wrong, but since we're both professional journalists, neither of us will look it up.
Much to the astonishment of the local patrons, I laughed aloud at this, disturbing the dulcet tones of country muzak wafting over what was apparently to be a very serious Thursday morning. I think there may have been some perturbation in the waitress's voice when she came over to ask what was so funny.
"That Dave Barry, he always gets me laughing."
"Who?"
"You've never heard of Dave Barry?"
"Nope."
Honestly, I think she wished she had, 'cause I'm pretty sure that, as with all diner waitresses, she wants me. But she hadn't.
The greatest American humorist since Will Rogers. Wasted on her.
It's no wonder we're always at "war".
Seriously.
posted by sequoit @ 4:34 PM
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