Relationship Columnist Blanche Légère
WARNING: Lady parts and stuff that they do are discussed
I got a call last week that I have a cyst on my ovary. The call came from my OB/GYN, so I tend to believe that the news is true. It’s not like that one time when a stranger called to tell me I might have VD, “Yeah, right you’re from the health department, lady!”
My doctor informed me that I have a “complicated cyst”, and that’s funny because I used to say that I had “CP” or “Complicated Pussy” because of all the requirements that needed to be met before and after sex, so that my vagina wouldn’t freak out. I’ve known for years that my reproductive area had a complicated mind of its own and that my vagina is a fucking genius—though lately, it’s more of a non-fucking genius!
A few years ago, while I was working in Paris, my vagina actually bled an image of the Eiffel Tower while I slept. I woke up, and on the bed sheet was an amazing, tiny (tight) replica of the Eiffel Tower. I was amazed!
I took my vagina to some museums later that day, and I have to say, it got pretty cocky for a vagina. It stood in the corner and said, “psh, I can do better zan zes shit!!” And then we got kicked out of the Louvre because it started smoking cigarettes. So that fact that one more thing about my lady bits is complicated, totally makes sense.
I don’t know if you noticed the accent, but my vagina, and complicated cyst are both French. CC, my moody cyst, smokes a lot of cigarettes and talks a lot of shit, If I want a coke, I hear her say, “You and your American Wine!” in her thick, condescending French accent.
And last night, she woke me up out of a deep sleep whispering; “You know zat I am probably ze Cancer, no? I mean of course you would need to contract ze cancer to extract yourself out of your difficult maliage.”
CC is a cunt.
Anyway, this cyst is distracting me, and I haven’t felt much like answering your questions. What I have felt like doing though is purging my shit. Not my fecal matter, but all the detritus of my life. I’ve been cleaning out closets and throwing stuff out… It’s like I’m dying or something. And if that’s the case, I want to save people the trouble of having to sift through old bank records and broken vibrators after I’m gone.
And while we’re on the subject of vibrators, how should one dispose of them? Am I supposed to take them to one of those motor oil/e-waste facilities, or can I just throw them away in the regular trashcan?
I opted for the can, and today while I was throwing away more stuff, I noticed that a local homeless guy was collecting recyclables… boy is he going to be surprised; he’s digging around the can, about to stumble upon a broken vibrator, that until quite recently, was digging around mine.
Now to your questions
We dated in high school. Do you remember me? I had the cape and the waterbed? We had that date at Bennigan’s. You ate a lot bread sticks, got drunk on the sangria and, well, I lost my virginity. Ring any bells?
— Larry Zimmerman
I was watching pornography the other day and I just couldn’t pinpoint the year the movie had been made. It was filmed in Eastern Europe and the building and furnishings were very old. The men’s clothing was generic and timeless; aside from the cock and balls coming out of their pants, and the women were naked. So, was the movie filmed yesterday, or during the early 1990’s?
I realized that the best way to identify the decade was by pubic hair. There was not pubic hair everywhere, so I knew that it was not filmed during the 70’s or 80’s. If there had been some, well-trimmed pubic hair, I might safely assume that it had been filmed during the 1990’s. However, in this movie, the ladies were sporting “The Hot Dog” (no pubic hair on the lips or asshole)! And based on that, I believe that the porn was filmed sometime last week?
Point being, Larry, pubic hair tells a story. And maybe even a cautionary tale. So, what was my pubic hair situation back then when we “dated”? I bet it was rather sparse, and not because it had been shaven or cut, but because the only time I’d ever fucked anyone who was still in high school, was when I was barely in junior high! Which means you might want to keep your story about making a 12-year-old girl drunk, and full of cock and carbohydrates a secret.
But don’t worry, Larry I don’t blame you. I blame my dad. My many therapists and I all agree that my dad leaving the family home when I was five is what’s to blame for my early promiscuous ways. It’s also my mom’s fault, because she always said, “The way to fill the hole in your heart is through your vagina.”
But years of therapy and personal growth have taught me that my mom was wrong. Using your vagina is not the only way to fill the hole in your heart… you can also use your mouth and anus.
Can you make Lady Gaga stop doing her act until I’m dead? You know, out of respect. — Madonna.
Hey, here’s an idea, how about you both stop your act until I’m dead! Which if all goes wrong, may only be in a year or so.
Why is sex on the beach so painful? — Andy D.
I think it’s the peach Schnapps! That shit will make you feel like you’ve got a vagina full of sand and saltwater in your eyes, if you drink too much of it.
But you know what peach Schnapps won’t do? It won’t stop the voice of your complicated French cyst! No, the Schnapps will make you vomit before that happens.