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Sometime in my youth I ran across the term "penis envy." I didn't really know what it meant, but it did sound funny. Later I found out it means all ladies want what I got, and that made perfect sense. But I never knew if there was an opposite condition, a vagina envy, vagenvy, if you will, whereby a man feels like he's missing something by not having a vagina. In our patriarchal Western society, this seemed almost anathema, but couldn't it be possible? Couldn't a man look at his spongy, disappointing flesh dongle and wish that he had something more pragmatic down there? I'm here to tell you yes. Because women of industry have taken hold of their vaginas, mostly literally, and done something with them. They've done spectacular, enviable things.

Donny Osmond's Lament

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I suppose, as a thought exercise or a flight of fancy, most of us have at least imagined once or twice what it would be like to be a member of the opposite sex. How would you approach life, what would you do first? For women, "pee standing up" is often the go-to answer for this. But for a dude, I like to think the answer is "jam a poster of '70s heartthrob Donny Osmond inside myself."

On an episode of what must have been an awesome show called Bizarre ER that aired over in the U.K. on BBC3, which is easily thrice as cool as BBC1, a woman was whisked away to the ER complaining of abdominal pains that, as it turned out, were a result of her having rolled up a poster of Donny Osmond and thrust it deep into her clamarama. Most of us would probably conclude that this was at least a possible source of discomfort all on our own, even with no medical training, if a similar situation presented itself. Like you'd be home watching American Horror Story thinking "Man, my guts is a-hurtin' real bad. Maybe, before dialing 911, I should remove this rolled-up poster of '70s pop star Donny Osmond, see if I perk up at all." Then you'd do that, maybe set it on a coaster on the table or whatever, take a Tylenol, have a tea, and discover that, yes, you do feel better when you don't have a poster jammed into your reproductive organ.


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I don't want to be judged unduly here, but I have, on occasion, partaken of the entertainment provided at gentleman's clubs. I have sat in a chair and watched strange boobies jiggling to modern pop hits while I drank grossly overpriced drinks. And once I saw a lady who went above and beyond the call of duty by, for her headlining act, applying a flammable special effects gel to her flower and setting it ablaze with a torch. I want you to really get in the moment with me and imagine this -- a naked woman, with a torch in her hand, lighting her own passage to Venus aflame for my entertainment. It was quite an evening at the theater, let me tell you.

I bring up the flaming vagina story to set the framework for this next tale of incendiary crotches to ease you into it. I don't want you to think this is an isolated incident -- there are flaming vaginas practically falling out of trees around here. Also at soccer games.

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"My vagina is the game. The game is my vagina."

I guess in Russia there's a constant problem with fans smuggling firecrackers into games. Like all the time. All the time women put explosives in their vaginas and go watch a soccer game and then, when it seems like a good idea, they birth their bang-baby and set him ablaze and just toss him at the team they don't like. This is what happened when some lady hooligan blew up the Moscow Dynamo goalkeeper's face by vag-blasting him with a firecracker in the middle of a game.

Remember this the next time someone tries to explain to you why soccer is a good sport. It's not. Soccer is a sport at which people have literally been decapitated by fans and women shoot explosives out of their vaginas. Soccer is the sport of uncivilized animals.

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You know that song "Grenade" by Bruno Mars? The original chorus went as follows: "I'd catch a grenade for you (yeah, yeah, yeah)/Throw it right in my vag for you (yeah, yeah, yeah)." Mr. Mars changed the lyrics later when focus groups rejected the notion that anyone would ever put a grenade in their vagina. Well, eat a steaming sack of dicks, focus groups, because I have a story for you.

A woman in El Salvador was visiting a friend in prison when officials discovered that she was bringing more than just good cheer and Salvadoran well-wishing -- she had an M-67 grenade in her mossy doughnut.

M-67 grenades are U.S. military frag grenades that have been in use since the mid-'70s and are not recommended for vaginal use, according to any of the info I could find online. The grenade, and a small amount of weed (because if you're using a vag grenade, you may as well take a calming puff beforehand), were confiscated, and the woman was charged.

Bottle of Piss

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If you're like me, your boss is constantly getting you to piss in a cup for him while he watches with hooded eyes, lips moist with Vaseline, hands gently caressing an American Girl doll. Some jobs even make you do that to test for drugs, as if going to work high was a crime or something.

Mischelle Salzgeber, who not only can't spell her name, but was on probation, had to pass a drug test to prove she was still probatable, or something like that. Not wanting to cramp her style by not doing drugs while on probation, she so did drugs while on probation. Then she set about on a plan only a truly drug-addled mind could conceive of. To fool the drug test, she would insert a small bottle of someone else's urine inside of herself. Yes, a small vodka bottle filled with the urine of an entirely different drug addict, who failed the test anyway. It was almost too easy.

Authorities suspected something was awry, I like to think because they saw her reach into her foxhole and unscrew something before peeing, and then conducted a scan that revealed the bottle. This, combined with the fact that she just used the pee of a different addict, meant perhaps Salzgeber was too far ahead of the curve for this kind of testing.

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Once, on a trip to New York, I spent about 15 minutes outside a Greyhound bus station talking to a very enterprising gentleman who went by the name "Q." Q had a variety of convenient wares for the busy bus traveler on the go, such as batteries, towels, pornography, and jewelry. I'd enjoyed a few drinks at this point and discussed business with Q, as well as local weather, ladies, and the police. He eventually talked me into buying a $15 Rolex watch, which seemed like the deal of a lifetime. Q promised he was not bullshitting me and that it was a legit Rolex and he was giving it to me for that awesome price because he liked me and not because it was a terrible, awful scam.

Part of me hoped that Q was being straight up with me, that we had bonded and he wasn't lying. This was a real Rolex. I mean, it had to be stolen, but I was OK with that, because $15 for a stolen Rolex is a great deal. Rolexes cost thousands of dollars. But in the sober light of the next day, it became remarkably clear that this was no kind of Rolex, because I paid $15. It said Rolex and everything, but come on. The watch I bought wasn't even fit for storing in a vagina. Oh, was that a segue? It was!

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Visual pun. Sweet.

Ryan Elkins, a 23-year-old lady of somewhat ill-repute, was arrested in South Florida as part of a little scam that saw her and several others absconding with men's valuables, including wallets and watches, which they got hold of at bars and nightclubs.

Numerous men fell victim to Elkins and three others, including a New York Giant who lost nearly half a million in jewelry. Others are pretty sure the women drugged them before picking them clean. But how does a lady steal that much stuff and get away with it? When police caught up with Elkins, she had her latest victim's $25,000 Rolex nestled deep in the grassy knoll, depreciating by the second. Yes, a vagina can double as a cartoon sack with a dollar sign on it, if you have the gumption.

Balls of Heroin


How much heroin can you safely store in your vagina? Ladies, take a moment, consult with a friend. Guys, treat this like one of those big jars of jelly beans and just hazard a guess based on your knowledge of the subject at hand. You know how many wieners a vagina can hold (more or less), so how much heroin is that?

Now who guessed 71? Anyone? Because 71 is the answer. Seventy-one balls of heroin in one single vagina. Each ball is about a half gram, so that's a street value of over $2,000 jammed in there just enjoying the humidity and closeness.

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Ugh. Smells like damp fear.

As a fun aside, I Googled "how many jelly beans in a vagina" on the off chance I'd get an actual answer and, saints be praised, Yahoo Answers was at the top of the page, with a distraught lady seeking help after her boyfriend put jelly beans in her vagina while sleeping and now she can't get them all out. I took a moment to appreciate this scenario -- a man on his bed, bathed in moonlight, with a bag of jelly beans, slowly easing them one by one into his sleeping girlfriend's vagina -- and thought "that's fucking insane." Anyway, just thought I'd let you know.

The woman smuggling the small fortune in horse was caught on a train in Poland. Guess how. Yeah, when you have 71 small spheres of potent narcotic shoved into your hobby lobby, you start walking around like James Brown trying to find his funk. It was enough for people watching to grow suspicious, so they took her in and did the standard "do you have many dozens of balls of heroin in your vagina?" search that the Polish railway is so well known for and found her stash.

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The Gungina

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True Romance. The Godfather. Reservoir Dogs. Film criminals are romantic and exciting and wonderful. We cheer for them to evade justice, to be free and unfettered in a world of rules. We find a release in their ability to flout convention and law. They do what we dare not do, and we love them for it. This is the story about a woman with a gun in her vagina.

Christie Harris was arrested after a drug-sniffing dog signaled to her car. A search found meth and a loaded gun. Christie may have been ready to go Thelma and Louise, only without Louise and with meth instead. We may never know. Doesn't matter. What does matter is, once taken to prison, Harris requested to not be searched, as she was getting her monthly visitor. Ha ha, not her parole officer, her period. It is worth noting that prisoners cannot request to not be searched, because that's silly as shit.

An officer yanked down Harris' drawers (which I like to think were homemade from old J cloths and catgut) and noticed something queer afoot. Something ill-placed and somewhat perplexing. The handle of a five-shot revolver, dangling from her cavern of femininity. Christie got a gun.

It's worth noting that, since the gun raised some suspicion, Harris' danker grotto was spelunked and found to contain a couple of bags of meth. So that's fun.

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