While in the drug store the other day I heard a mom talk to her little girl (who was around age five) about female “private parts”. The little girl wanted to know what Tampons are and why her mom was buying them. The mom said, “They’re for mommy’s coochie, honey.” And then Mom quickly steered the little girl over to the Barbie toothbrushes—you know, the ones with the handles shaped like Barbie’s unrealistic proportions. Which, by the way would be 39-18-33, if Barbie were human size.
Sweet Jesus, no wonder little girls grow up thinking Charlie Sheen is a viable option.
But overhearing that conversation got me thinking. We need a new name for the female velvet pleasure palace of carnal delights. (I think that’s from a Nora Roberts novel…and if it’s not it should be.) A coochie sounds like something you get from sharing combs and hats with people who have an aversion to washing their hair. (“Damn it, Billy’s got coochies again. He has to stop hanging out with those skanky girls who cruise Hot Dog on a Stick at the mall.) You can see how if the words “infestation” and “coochie” somehow found themselves dancing together in the same sentence the connation would not only be confusing, but icky.
The word vagina just doesn’t cut it, either. That sounds too much like a southern redneck state where the number 13 constitutes the number of counties still flying the Confederate flag, as well as the legal age a girl can get married. “Yeah, me and Virgil, we’s from South Vagina where they make a sweet potato pie down there so moist and creamy it brings all normal men to their knees. And by normal we don’t’ mean them prissy sissy boys up North who think it’s okay to shave all your body parts even if your name ain’t Michael Phelps.”
Yes indeedy, “gay” is the new “black” down in good, ole South Vagina.
A Coochie By Any Other Name is Still a…
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, coochie. I believe we should rename the female genitalia to cul-de-sac. Think about it. There’s only one way in and one way out, just a like that little suburban alcove on which most red-blooded Americans are born and raised.
In either case, the beauty of the cul-de-sac is that you can explore it for only so long and then you need to go. You never want to overstay your welcome in a cul-de-sac, because let’s face it after the cul-de-sac gets over its excitement of having you as a guest, it really doesn’t want you hanging around anymore. Oh sure you’ll probably want to return later (and depending on how groovy the block party was, the cul-de-sac might even want you back). But regardless of how long it’s been between visits, you shouldn’t get lost if you finally do get invited back. Navigating a cul-de-sac is easy if you paid attention the first time you were there. If fact, you’d have to be a moron NOT to know your way around a cul-de-sac because cul-de-sac geography was part of your junior high core curriculum all way back in the seventh grade…unless you’re from South Vagina.
Coochie Goes High Brow
But just when I was getting chummy with the idea of sporting a cul-de-sac between my legs, I began to over think it (as usual) and thus decided the word “sac” dangling at the end was just too masculine of a handle for such a delicate flower. How about cul-de-coochie instead? The wordsmith in me likes that little bit of alliteration. Plus, it almost has a pop-culturish French ring to it, like when Labelle sang “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi (ce soir)?” in the song Lady Marmalade. Because as everyone knows, there’s nothing like being pretentiously trendy when it comes to labeling the front porch of your reproductive organs.
But when I test drove the word cul-de-coochie at a Mormon Gay Rights Rally (yes, we actually do have those here in Utah; gays and rallies, as well as a few Mormons) a BYU English professor dressed as Marie Antoinette correctly pointed out that “cul-de-coochie” gets too far away from the concept (and vision) of “cul-de-sac” as a stand-in. He suggested cul-de-snatch instead, as that literally sounds more like cul-de-sac, thus preserving the integrity of the intended imagery. And then he danced off with a buffed mining executive from Kennecott dressed in nothing but a loincloth and lapis beads. (Oh, how I love hanging out with intellectuals.)
As a result, I’ve decided to stick with cul-de-snatch as the new nomenclature for my hoo-ha. I’ve already started using it in conversation as if it’s a word everyone should know. The really hip people pick up the meaning out of context and those I have to explain it to I just tell them to go look it up. (Which is kind of like pretending to throw a stick and then watching a dog chase after nothing.)
SO the first time you hear “cul-de-snatch” used in snappy repartee at some chic cocktail party (or on an episode of Family Guy or South Park), remember you heard it here first. They stole it from me, which is the sincerest form of flattery. You can smile to yourself slyly knowing YOU were actually present at the birth of that exraordinary new word just by reading my blog. What could be hipper than that?
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Stacy Dymalski is a stand-up comic who gave up the glamorous life of coach travel, smokey comedy clubs, and heckling drunks for the glamourous life of raising kids (who happen to be bigger hecklers than the drunks). This blog is her new stage.
For more of Stacy’s comedy check out her hilarious book Confessions of a Band Geek Mom available in paperback and on Kindle on Amazon.com.