Summer’s Eve — the douche subsidiary of Fleet Laboratories, the company that makes enemas and other crap you stick up your ass — has a new spokesfist. According to this fist, which talks by thumb-synching to a voiceover, it can “perform the miracle of birth” and “make men drop to their knees in about 2.1 seconds”. It’s time, says the fist, that “we all celebrate and hail to the V!”
That’s right. The fist is a humorous stand-in for a vulva, which collection of organs is, as we all know, too flippin ugly to show on the internet unless it is being violently penetrated by something. “V” doesn’t stand for “vulva,” though. Its stands for “stinky ladypart.” Just as “hail” means “spray cheap perfume on that rank shit.”
You know what, thank the lard for advertising. They’ve got our back. They’re not afraid to light a fire under our complacent ass and foment revolution whenever it’s finally “time” for stuff. A while back, you might remember, it was “time” to get real about toilet paper. Now it’s “time” to “hail the V,” which we only know thanks to Summer’s Eve. Without this consciousness-raising ad campaign, we probably would have continued walking around like a bunch of hairy primates, not spraying any shit-o on our vulva at all. But I digress.
I was not expecting the spokesfist when I looked up the Summer’s Eve website. I was trying to find their current TV commercial. Though spokesfist-free, the commercial is nevertheless a fairly vile tableau in which the concept “woman” is reduced entirely to the concept “vagina” in a series of expensively produced cinematic spectacles designed to sell vulva deodorant. This woman-to-sex-organ reduction is no harmless synecdoche. The message, in no uncertain terms, is that your “V” — because it is the “center of civilization” and “men have died for it” — belongs to the world, that you are essentially nothing more than the guardian of this “V”, and that it is your obligation to keep it perfumed for the greater good.
Yeah, this ad is bad, but the website is several orders of magnitude more abhorrent. It is, in fact, so profoundly patronizing, insulting, and absurd, we here at Spinster HQ blew several lobes in succession within 4 clicks. I mean, there’s a spokesfist, for crissake. Which, although it is more closely analogous to a vulva, they keep referring to as a “vagina.” Or “The V.” Which they want you to “hail” by purchasing carcinogenic products to squirt all over it.
So I took the “V 101 Quiz,” where the spokesfist reassured me not to feel bad if I got any answers wrong, because “even I [the spokesfist] got one wrong the first time, and I’m a vagina!”. What a stupid fucking spokesfist.
When I got to the “Vagina Owner’s Manual”, wherein the spokesfist explains to the dimwitted human how to shop for feminine hygiene products, I read this:
March right down that aisle, head held high, grab whatever product you’re looking for (there’s plenty from Summer’s Eve to choose from), and place it on top of everything else in your cart. Don’t hide it! Heck, choose the checkout lane where the hottie is working and get your flirt on.
Yeah, “I’m buying coochie spray, doesn’t it just make you wanna fuck me?”
You understand that I can no longer form coherent sentences on the subject.