What Are We Gonna Do With All This Trash?: Why Y'all So Vagina?

November 30, 2006

Why Y'all So Vagina?

What does it say about us as a culture when all a young and famous lady need do to curry favor with the American media is a well-timed and well-executed beaver

flash? These accidental-but-not-really-at-all peep shows have become so ubiquitous, they've ceased to have any truly remarkable impact. I mean, shit, the photo to your left is Ms. Spears' second genital display in a week.

It’s become a cliché of the Lohan-level fame-lust crowd, the de rigeur move of desperation for any starlet who feels the celebrity press just aren't ravenous enough over them: get famous (acting/singing/blow jobbing), have a physical or emotional breakdown (blow overdose/marriage to background dancer), and then remind people that you're famous by showing off your newly Brazilian-ed lady hole to the omnipresent paparazzi.

This is not to say I’m against a woman’s right to choose to flash her vagina in public. Hell, I think we need more public vaginas in our society, not less. But it becomes a twee bit icky when the act itself is a cry for attention: “Hey, America, remember me? Check out my box!”

But here we are anyway, talking about Britney when there’s really no other earthly reason to do so. I suppose, then, that she accomplished her goal. She's climbed back into the pop culture consciousness, if only briefly, and all it took was panty-less car ride, a thousand flash bulbs, and our craven desire to see a famous woman's baby chute.

The very model of a win-win situation, no?

(And you're welcome for the picture, Scrap Heap. You. Are. Welcome.)

1 comment:

Scrap Heap Pete said...: What can I say? I can't keep my face out of female celebrities' crotches. Third one this month! Cha-Ching!; 9:33 PM

Post a Comment

A History Of Trash

Trash, at first, was a pretty cool guy. You know, he’d come over with some beers, and you’d hang out and have a couple of laughs. Maybe Trash brought some weed with him, and you guys tried to sync up Dark Side Of The Moon with The Wizard Of Oz until you remembered you lost your VHS copy of that movie sometime in college and that you fucking hate Pink Floyd. Good times were had, nonetheless.

But then, you don’t know what changed, but Trash started to overstay his welcome. He’d just linger for hours, never taking the hint you wanted him to leave, no matter how many times you yawned obnoxiously or mentioned how early you had to get up tomorrow. Trash just didn’t get it. You were getting older. You didn’t have the time anymore to stay up until 3 a.m. to talk about the Port season of “The Wire” or how much you miss Jawbox. Eventually, you just stopped taking Trash’s phone calls and no longer replied to his group e-mails about sneaking into abandoned mental hospitals.

Last time you saw Trash, he was smoking alone outside a local dive bar, looking down at his decaying and mismatched shoes. You hoped he had been doing well. You hoped he had not been hurt by the disintegration of your friendship. And if he had, you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to tell him that even though people move on with their lives, it doesn’t mean they stop caring. You wanted him to see in your eyes a sincere appreciation for the time you shared, because all the relationships in our lives help make us who we are, and even if you weren’t the best of friends anymore, you wanted him to know that there would always be a piece of Trash in your heart.

But instead, you looked away and crossed the street. You were with your new girlfriend, and you really didn’t want to have to explain Trash to her. She’d never understand.