ColumnsWhat A World


Vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina, vagina
by Nancy Ford

Hang onto your labias, ladies. Just when you think the War on Women can’t possibly become any more absurd, it does.

Here’s how one notable battle played out earlier this summer on the hallowed floor of the Michigan Statehouse. Democratic state representatives Lisa Brown and Barb Byrum were forbidden from participating in debates concerning three bills that would further restrict Michigan women from access to abortion. Because that’s what’s going to get America working again.

Michigan House Speaker Jase Bolger accused the women of “disrupting decorum” when Rep. Brown stated during a speech opposing one of the anti-choice bills: “I’m flattered that you’re all so interested in my vagina, but no means no.”

Hush, woman! How dare you refer to your sacred ladyparts in such a flippant, disrespectful manner!

All this tootie talk prompted me to ponder if Speaker Bolger might be right. The English language is rife—practically overflowing—with alternative wee-wee terms. Why should any of us be restricted to referring to the lovecave portion of a woman’s anatomy by its accepted, medical, scientific, real name?

A quick Internet search (and what a journey that was!) revealed an almost limitless supply of amusing terms for a woman’s down-there area—plenty enough names to distract ourselves from the real issues at hand, like protecting women’s reproductive rights, affordable healthcare for all, and equal pay. You know—girl talk.

Without any close competition, hands down, a woman’s Velveeta is most frequently paralleled with food items, including the appetite-taunting bacon hole, bald biscuit, whisker biscuit, bikini biscuit, banana box, juice box, bologna flap-over, breakfast of champions, bubble gum by the bum, burger bar, cold cut combo, cookie, fur burger, hair pie, hairy doughnut, honey pot, peach, bean, bearded taco, pink taco, tuna taco, meat massager, roast beef curtains, scrambled eggs between the legs, sugar basin, sausage wallet, dinner roll, crotch waffle, sugar hole, pastrami flaps, enchilada of love, ham sandwich, fortune nookie, vedgie, pancake fold, pocket pie, pork pie, fruit cup, Arby’s with fur, jelly roll, lobster pot, Little Debbie, knish, the Golden Arches, clamarama, slurpee machine, pink cookie, poontang pie, meat crease, tongue roll, salami garage, pink truffle, meat counter, pound cake, beef tomato, cherry pop tart, cooter muffin, salt water taffy factory, Mommy’s pie, meat wagon, pickle pocket, cucumber canal, egg drop box, nice slice, rack of clam, candy kiss, and goodie basket. You want fries with that?

Second most common are terms that fans of museums of natural history might employ: bear trap, beaver, beetle hood, Brazilian caterpillar, big bud, bird’s nest, bunny tuft, buffalo gums, bearded clam, dead clam, black hole, black oak, cat, flower, grassy knoll, kitty kat, rattlesnake canyon, serpent socket, rosebud, cat’s paw, chia hole, Venus butterfly, rooster jaws, deer hoof, conch shell, fly catcher, lotus, bush, kitty cage, snake lake, and pole magnet. My personal favorite is Margaret Mead.

Pop-culture fans will likely love Lawrence of a Labia, The Notorious V.A.G., Count Flapula, Indiana Bones and the Temple of Poon, and Courtney Cocksleeve.

The Great Divide, Erie Canal, the Twatlantic Ocean, and Republic of Labia are fine geographical euphemisms for a woman’s Land Down-Under. But even more of the terms sound like little towns found on a Texas roadmap: Looking for Dove Breast? It’s just past Choocha, down the road from Wagon Ruts, south of Mound. Go down Red Lane east of Sweet Briar, then take the first turn at Chicken’s Tongue. If you reach Spunk Pot, you’ve gone too far.

In addition to the poetically musical happy flappy, other nonsensical, non-offensive catch phrases for one of humankind’s most mystical organs include the fuzzy wuzzy, the nana, quim, snooch, poody tat, scrumpter, frum, cooch, cooter, twat, nookie, and wookie. Don’t forget the exotic punani, punash, and poontang, all sounding like they’ve been freshly snatched, if you will, from a curry menu.

If these nonsensical terms offend the more educated among us who’ve actually studied women’s anatomy beyond Vacation Bible School, we offer baby oven, baby zipper, belly entrance, birth canal, love canal, fetus flaps, and DNA dumpster.

Speaking of the Bible, for the more spiritually inclined, we offer the altar of love, love hole, slice of heaven, hairy heaven, snake handler, Holiest of Holies, The Holy Grail, door of life, Red Sea, and the supremely biblically paranoid Death of Adam.

For the sports enthusiast, we have catcher’s mitt, home plate, nappy dugout, furry eight-ball rack, tackle box, man in the boat, boy in the canoe, skin canoe, and penalty box. For the automotively inclined, we recommend mud flaps and brake pads.

A fan of home-remodeling reality TV shows? Try love rug, curly curtains, furry furnace, Velcro love triangle, or the simple, no-frills carpet.

Feeling patriotic? Try Ground Zero.

But whether we called a vagina a vagina, a pussy, a vertical smile, trim, muff, flesh cavern, clit slit, hatchet wound, happy flaps, the yo-yo smuggler (the yo-yo smuggler?), the pink, the furry cup, cupid’s cupboard, love glove, fun hatch, gash, spasm chasm, hump hole, pink circle, silk igloo, slurpy, vulvic vacuum, the hungry minge, slot pocket, moneymaker, crave cave, the toolshed, Furby, brillo, flesh tuxedo, queef quarters, or tunnel of love, one thing is true: Every American vagina-owner over 18 years of age has the right to vote for or against anyone who’s telling them what to call their love box, their male box, their nether bread-box, jewel box, fuzz box, or Pandora’s box.

I believe I’ll start calling my private area the Ballot Box.


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