The once emphatically counter-cultural, anti-establishment vagina has in fact become the man, the heap-big establishment, so far out of the staid satin boudoir that it has become boringly bourgeois. Nothing demonstrates this more completely than the fact that the vaginas are now being told to shut up; that all of their yapping is insensitive to the non-vaginated members of the weeping sisterhood, who want recognition for being just as vapor-capable as any strong woman in America, and they don’t need to haul around these needy, neurotic, attention-demanding, verbally-incontinent vaginas to make sure everybody knows it.

Well, good, says I. Let’s stop obsessing over a gift women did nothing to earn and over which they therefore can claim no bragging right. Let’s release all the tired little vaginas from the thongs and g-strings and let them slouch around comfortably in real panties — the lingerie equivalent of sweat pants and white socks — and let the vaginas (and their less celebrated vulvas) give over to their weariness. They’ve been on quite a whirwind bender, these past decades, and could likely use little quiet time to themselves.

For which the rest of the world may give thanks.