Actual size. I’ve seen’em twice as big. And, god help us all, they fucking fly.
In case you were wondering whether there is any downside to living in South Austin, I bring you Periplaneta fuliginosa, the giant flying Smokybrown Cockroach of Zilkerland. Now, as the director of the Twisty Center for Urban Varmint Research, you know that I am loath to cast aspersions on any innocent life form, even one that squirts out about a pint of disgusting brown liquid when you step on it, but there are limits. Once one of these bad boys dive-bombs you as you lounge in your lime green recliner trying to watch Battlestar Galactica, it’s on, baby!
Meanwhile, from the I-Swear-This-Is-The-Last-Post-On-This-Topic [At Least For A While] Department, my patriarchy-blaming post about designer vaginectomies recently got a little attention on the music-related listserv I subscribe to. I was pretty bewildered by the following exchange between a couple of pedigreed male rock musicians (after reading this you may surmise that they are drummers, but you will be wrong):
A: I can’t say with any authority what constitutes a good-looking one, but I can say that I’ve seen some bad ones.
B: I’m with you on that one, A. I couldn’t for the life of me describe a good-looking one, but I do know one when I see one!
That’s right. They are discussing human vulvae.
I realize that every outward aspect of a woman’s body is up for grabs, physically, culturally, and politically, but until now I had imagined that our internal tissues had somehow escaped the soul-sucking scrutiny of the arbiters of hotness. Clearly this is because it has never occurred to me in a million years to think of any given vulva as an object separate from the woman who (theoretically) possesses it. In fact, I regard this region as manifesting neither hotness nor unhotness. Like a kneecap or an eyelid, a vulva is just there, value-neutral, transcendent of petty looksist concerns, secreting its secretions in secret and no big whoop.
But obviously dudes, who spend all their waking hours trying to figure out how to get up in one, are uniquely qualified to assess and evaluate, according to some standard that they themselves cannot articulate but which I suspect has more than a little to do with a lifetime of mandatory exposure to Hustler, the aesthetic properties of female genital tissue.
So now I am extremely curious to know what constitutes a “bad one.” Is it covered with purulent boils? Equipped with rotating knives? Does it verbally abuse the dudeliness of its male observers? Or is it merely lacking in dewy, just-picked pinkness? Because, as Cafesiren pointed out in a recent comment, “any man who has access to a vagina of any kind, no matter what it looks like, oughtn’t be complaining.”