How to see a vagina without getting a woman naked

The first time I ever saw a vagina, I was eight or nine years old. It happened in the schoolyard of my elementary school, where most of my important learning took place. A friend of mine asked if I wanted to see a pussy, and of course I nodded excitedly. He then put his palms together and held this hands horizontally, with his ring and middle fingers separated like Mr. Spock would do on Star Trek. He instructed me to do the same thing, but to hold my hands vertically. We interlocked our hands at the "V" and my friend told me to open my hands at the palm and peek inside this contraption made of metacarpals and skin. Voila! A vagina revealed itself to me that day, and it was quite a letdown.
Though I had barely any knowledge of the female anatomy, most of it having been passed on to me as hearsay and rumor, I knew even then that a vagina doesn't look like a kaleidoscope of finger webbing. I wasn't sure what it looked like, precisely--some bathroom graffiti seemed to imply that it was triangular, for one thing--but it seemed a lot more complex than what had been presented to me at that point.
In its way, the acquisition of sexual and social misinformation is its own rite of passage, one that prepares you for adulthood better than any sexual education class or moldy copy of Oui magazine can. It teaches valuable lessons that remain true throughout your life: many people would rather lie than to admit that they don't know about a subject, and when everyone agrees about the validity of a lie, it becomes a truth. Also, men will go to any length to be near pussy, even poor facsimilies of it.
This is why I routinely lie to children every chance I get. It tests their mettle and prepares them for the reality of lying and posturing they will encounter in adulthood. If a child accepts a bald-faced lie at face value and passes on that information to his peers, then you know what the future will hold for that person: a high-ranking job at the CIA. The more skeptical among them will grow up to become cynical bloggers.

I probably shouldn't have eaten all those hamburgers

Oh god. I am dying. This is really it. I can't feel my left arm and my chest feels like it's going to snap. This is no murmur. I am having the mother of all heart attacks and there's no one around to help. I guess I brought this on myself by eating all of those goddamned hamburgers.
Looking back on my life, I don't really regret it. You know, I didn't pay for a single one? Mooched 'em all, tens if not hundreds of thousands of minced beef sandwiches. I could go for one right now. If it weren't for this searing chest pain, I'd stroll over to the wharf and rustle up a mark to pay for my hamburger. Tell him I'm one of the Jones boys, Jones is the name. I get paid Tuesday, and I'd gladly repay a small loan on that day. Heh. Sucker.
Even though I ate solely hamburgers for most of my life, I tried to eat healthy. I always tried to get pickles, onion, and lettuce on all of them. Sometimes I would grind a cow on the spot to have the freshest ground chuck available. Sure, it wasn't with the owner's consent or even foreknowledge, but I presume he would be satisfied that his bovine was consumed by a hamburger aficionado. Perhaps I didn't always follow local health statutes to the letter. Perhaps there was some bone or cow eye in some of my sandwiches. Perhaps that oversight has contributed to the deplorable state I find myself in right now.
I'll tell you, though, it wasn't really about the hamburgers. It was fleecing poor rubes into buying them for me. You can't understand the rush. One time, I wooed a lady who had a crying baby. She gave me a dollar to go get the little tyke some milk. I tipped my hat and high-tailed it to the greasy spoon and ordered up ten whoppers. They were more succulent than the most ripened fruit, even more because I had stolen them from the mouth of a hungry baby. I wonder what happened to that kid.
Well, no matter. Despite my unfortunate first name (my mother named me that--I swear!) I do not fear my passage into the great beyond. Though I scammed every morsel of food I ever ate, I have lived a humble and good life. I'm pretty sure I'm going to heaven. Unless they eat vegetarian up there, that is. I'd gladly sell my soul Tuesday for a hamburger today.

White History Month

The only thing white folks hate more than people talking during movies is not being invited to a happening party. Especially when it’s in our own house! You may have already seen the forwarded chain e-mail that suggests how unfair it is that there is no White Entertainment Television; no United Whitey College Fund; no White History Month. On that last bit, the author(s) of this e-mail may have a point. We Caucasians have been separated from our true legacy by white privilege, and it’s time to make that privilege work for us. Finally. That’s why I propose that December (it being the whitest month) be named White History Month, and that this time be dedicated to educating everyone about the important, detrimental contributions we have made to the world.

I can picture it now: the whole family sitting in front of the television, little Bobby playing his PSP; Emily talking on her cellular phone; Dad clicking through the channels obsessively; Mom quietly and pleasantly drunk in her easy chair. Dad lands on a channel to find Charlton Heston strolling along a gallery of paintings depicting famous whites: David Duke, Benito Mussolini, Jesus Christ. He talks briefly about the legacy and tenacity of racism and white superiority, then speaks some of the ofays that we would like to remember during this month of reflection:

Francis Galton (1822-1911) – No, he didn’t invent racism, but he allowed white folk to feel good about it. He published his theory of eugenics—that’s the inherent superiority of certain genetic traits—in 1869. This was just in time for America, which was wrapping up its Civil War. We were able to put all of that bad blood behind us and move forth as a nation unified in a common belief: the scientific basis for racism

David Hume (1711-1776) – This Scottish philosopher was a major proponent of the Laws of Nature, one of which is apparently the inferiority of black Africans:

I am apt to suspect the Negroes to be naturally inferior to the Whites. There scarcely ever was a civilised nation of that complexion, nor even any individual, eminent either in action or in speculation. No ingenious manufacture among them, no arts, no sciences.

Of course, he only articulated what Whitey was already thinking.

D. W. Griffith (1875-1948) – President Woodrow Wilson (another upstanding cracker) is alleged to have said, "It is like writing history with lightning, and my only regret is that it is all so true,” about Griffith’s landmark 1915 film, Birth of a Nation. A remarkable achievement—twelve reels of silent film at a time when most films clocked in around twenty minutes—it was the Titanic of its day, a remarkable technical achievement with little regard for historical accuracy. This film re-spawned the Reconstruction-era hate group, the Ku Klux Klan, by depicting the Klan as valorous defenders of white womanhood. Of course, the uppity bitches would turn around and use this to gain national suffrage rights in 1920.

Cut back to Charlton, who is sitting on an ivory throne and being fanned by palm fronds. He promises that this information is just the tip of the white superiority iceberg, and if we want to know more about white history, we should make like good crackers and do some reading at our local library. Or make your own history! Racism is alive and well in America, and there’s nothing to say that you can’t be a modern-day J. Edgar Hoover or a Tuskegee scientist. Bobby looks up from his Ratchet & Clank video game, and he is inspired. Of course, he was already a racist. But now, he is an informed racist. And that makes him twice as dangerous.