If you haven’t heard of Lindy West before, be warned: dangerous, profound, addictive. Sex and the City 2 is “essentially a home video of gay men playing with giant Barbie dolls.” Discuss.
We’ve been thinking it for two long years.
All of us. Gnawing our cheeks at night, clutching at sweaty sheets, our
faces hollow and gray, our once-bright eyes dimmed by the pain of too
many questions. Sometimes we cry out, en masse, to a faceless god and a
cold, indifferent universe that holds its secrets close. What… rasps the death rattle of our collective sanity. What is the lubrication level of Samantha Jones’s 52-year-old vagina? Has
the change of life dulled its sparkle? Do its aged and withered depths
finally chafe from the endless pounding, pounding, pounding—cruel
phallic penance demanded by the emotionally barren sexual compulsive
from which it hangs? If I do not receive an update on the deep, gray caverns of Jones, I shall surely die!
Please don’t die. The answer is… fine. Samantha’s vagina is doing
fine. She rubs yams on it, okay? She takes 48 vagina vitamins a day. It
accepts unlimited male penises with the greatest of ease. Now let us
never speak of it again.