Next Tuesday, I will get a certified pre-owned vagina. The paperwork should take around two hours, and I’ll forget which side to fill it up on for around three months. Until the day he dies, my dog will almost certainly try to gnaw on it, regarding it as a toy; my Roomba will attempt to sweep it up, believing it to be shmutz.
Many of my friends think I’m crazy. “Get a new vagina,” they say. “When you buy used, you don’t know who’s been in the thing.” This view is archaic, of course. Putting aside the insane depreciation–a vagina loses a couple grand the second it leaves the lot–they’re confusing “used” with “certified pre-owned.” My new-to-me vagina has been through a 29-point checklist, examined from the hood ornament to the part by the butthole. The flaps, the folds, the intake: all details have been scrutinized. And, Lord, was the test drive smooth.
Excuse me.
Mm?
This is weird even for you. It makes as much sense, but it’s just odd.
Hey, you know what’s nice about transgendered folks?
What?
They are fully and regrettably human.
Poor fucks.
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