The miracle of birth, huh? That’s something of a misnomer, a bill of goods, a friggin’ crock. I should say that I’m skeptical of miracles in general. I don’t don’t swoon over images of the Virgin Mary burned into the side of a Hot Pocket, and I don’t speak in tongues when a family pussy cat gets sucked up into a tornado only to return home three days later without any fur. I do concede, however, that there is something extraordinary about part of the birth process. The problem with the miracle of birth, as with so many other cliches, idioms, and old chestnuts, is the sweeping nature of the language, the generality of it all. That said, I hereby propose a revision to the miracle of birth so that it becomes the miracle of–
Hold on, I’m getting ahead of myself. Bare with me. Consider for a moment the omnipresence of phallic symbols and worship. It can be broken down by category:
*Architecture — The Eiffel Tower, The Empire State Building, The Washington Monument, The Innuendo Tower, and every church steeple in the world.
*Nature — Old Faithful, cacti, General Sherman, and any variety of snake but preferably anacondas.
*Artillery and Weapons — canon, gun, torpedo, spear, sword, and all other instruments of violence that are longer than they are wide.
*Vices — cigars, cigarettes, pipes, champagne flutes, and occasionally mint- and/or cinnamon-flavored toothpicks.
*Transportation — trains, rockets, choppers, surfboards, and stallions.
*Miscellaneous/Recreation — vampire fangs, fishing poles, long ties, golf clubs, hockey sticks, door knobs, top hats, and the state of Florida.
Clearly there’s a pattern to this list, and I need not go too deep into the archives of slang to further substantiate that this pattern exists. *Pause for effect* Okay, just a few: the baloney pony, Long Dong Silver, and — my personal favorite — the tally whacker (Who the hell is tally? And why must she be whacked?). The association with magnitude and violence is astounding. The penis seems not so much a sex organ as a weapon of mass destruction.
The vagina, by contrast, does not enjoy such a celebrated status. To wit: I’m guessing most of you had heard the words phallus and phallic when I used them earlier, but I’m guessing most of you haven’t come across the words yoni or yonic, which is the appropriate vaginal counterpart. As you might imagine, most yonic symbols are hardly intimidating: caves, pots, rooms, roses. Most of these are things to be occupied or possessed. I suppose you might argue that caves connote a mystery of sorts, an ominous feeling on par with associations conjured by a loaded gun; but caves are also where you venture to go spelunking, and the very sound of the word spelunking undercuts any and all powerful or violent emotions.
Now, in the past decade or so, I’ve become something of a vagina connoisseur. Actually, I should be more specific — I’ve become something of a connoisseur of my wife’s vagina (No other vaginas factor into my expertise, but I think that my wife’s parts are both representative and exemplary). When you father two children, becoming a connoisseur in this way is a foregone conclusion. Having become familiar with her parts and having already achieved a more than intimate familiarity with my own, I can honestly say that — in a side-by-side comparison measuring strength, agility, and endurance — the vagina is the hands-down winner.
The penis is a lot of bark and very little bite; the vagina, on the other hand, is nothing but bite. It’s taken me a long time to admit this truth, but it became clear after witnessing the miracle of birth, which I will now lobby to change to the miracle of the vagina, an idiom that achieves a little more accuracy. Freud talked about penis envy, but actually it’s men who should have vagina envy.
Like Freud, the prolific rapper Sir Mix-a-Lot also got it wrong. He argues that his “anaconda don’t want none unless you got buns, hon…” The metaphor is charming, but it doesn’t last long (how’s that for a pun?) when you apply a little scrutiny. First of all, the erect penis shares but one commonality with the anaconda — the phallic shape — and this is where the similarities end. Anacondas are powerful, dexterous, and in possession of the ability of constriction, and these qualities are more consistent with the vagina.
I can hear a lot of you men beginning to protest, but I can only assume that these are the men who have not been in the room during labor and delivery. The vagina widens, practically unhinges, so as to make room for a watermelon-sized oblong object with four jutting appendages (five if it’s a boy — though hardly anaconda-sized) and simultaneously constricts to propel the object into the world in less time than it takes to watch the Superbowl. Afterward, the vagina recoils, returning to its status quo, happy to have been of service. As you can see, the vagina is not merely a cavernous space or a trite rosebud; rather, it has all the faculties of a deadly predator. It’s the true anaconda, albeit a bearded — or in some cases creatively groomed — anaconda. The penis is merely prey.
It should also be noted that if there is any pride to be had in regards to the penis — any pride at all– then that pride is owed to women. Penis length has little to do with conception, of course, as a woman can become pregnant with minimal effort (effort being a euphemism for penetration, which seems like such a rude and nasty word). If this is true, and it is, then we must ask ourselves why the average penis length is, according to the Kinsey Institute, between five and six inches? For god’s sake, that’s several unnecessary tally-whacking inches — well, unnecessary in terms of utility, yet desirable in terms of recreation.
We must assume that those extra inches came by way of evolution. For millennia, woman have been stating their preference for the kielbasa over the cocktail weenie via simple natural selection. So, men, any endowment over which you feel pride must be attributed to the long line of mothers and grandmothers — Holocaust survivors, Civil War nurses, Salem witches, pilgrims, vikings, pirate wenches, Mesopotamian-era housewives, cavewomen, and so on — who so prudently opted for the jumbo size, thereby sculpting your penis into the size and shape it is today.
With this post, I’ve merely scratched the surface of the vagina (which, as mentioned above, is all that’s necessary), but I feel that we can safely conclude the vagina is mightier than the flesh sword. So think twice next time you come across a man with no back bone and flippantly refer to him as a pussy, and recall what you’ve learned here — that the one true miracle in this world is the miracle of the vagina.
NOTE: You should subscribe to this post. If you do not subscribe to this post, everyone will think you are a pus– … uh, er, I mean, everyone will think there’s nothing special about you, nothing special whatsoever.
ANOTHER NOTE: If there are any arguments you’d care to voice on the penis-vagina debate, I cordially invite you to do so in the comments section. This is an important issue, one dear to my heart, and I’d love to continue this dialogue in a constructive and safe forum. So tell me about your penis, tell me about your vagina, and if you’re a hermaphrodite, tell me about both. Thanks for reading!