Requiem For a Disease-ridden, Unloved, Unsightly Pussy --
An open letter to the collective pussy of Jon, Joe, Nick, and the unknown man

The main problem with getting back at West Coast friends who leave drunken messages like the second one in the post below is that you really want to handle that business when you too are shithaused and know that when you call there will be no chance that anything but voicemail will come up so that you can leave a long, uninterupted soliloquy of stupidity. Well, with the invention of the personal computer (Thanks, Datapoint!) and the internet (thanks, Uncle Chester!), and smooth bourbon (thanks, Makers!) an EST hombre can get back at his PST amigos without having to actually talk with them.

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to remember our least favorite pussy that we somehow still wanted the best for. Over the years we discretely sprayed their joint pussy with 'hope' scented Lysol. We dreamed of the massive cesspool crevice to be sealed with concrete, cement, or at least filled with Gold Bond powder. We had nightmares about conversing with your nightmarish slit on sidewalk subway vents or while laundering your 'whites'. But we're now just thankful that the growling and hissing coming from you has been silenced and replaced by peace. A thatchy, boil-covered, contagious kind of peace, but a peace none the less.

We didn't judge you when we walked in on you masturbating with a garden weasel. We tried to understood how thick it can get in there and how satisfying the angled, staggered, triangular blades could be on the outside of the dense thicket that was your pussy. Overgrown, but perhaps underloved. Or at least underscrubbed.

We tried to stop everyone from mocking you for having to stuff in a sandbag downtown during your menstruation periods. We blamed the bloody discarded sandbags on the Iraqi insurgents when you tried to ditch your bloody bags of disease in downtown Baghdad. Too bad the smell from the bags led to several Iraqi men being hanged for swearing off vagina forever. It was unfortunate, and not all your fault.

We were thankful when you got our buddy off the schnide, even if you let him scratching feverishly. We tried to make sense of the dermatologist saying that poison ivy could, technically, be a sexually transmitted disease. We ignored how you supposedly had no rash, but quite possibly in fact had the plant growing, thriving from your dark, moist, diseased abyss. Wrigley Field has ivy and everyone loves that, right? Just like your labial growth, and we will forever miss you. We will visit your grave on Yucca mountain as often as we can, and always try to remember the good times, like when we simply removed the vacuum seal around you when our Senior prank fell through or when we hid that weed from the drug-sniffing dogs in you that time we went to Canada. That dog died, but fuck it. It was a fuckin' pig dog, right? Ashes to ashes. Bluff to bluff.