Excuse me, car salesman? I have an insecurity about my body that I hope to solve by purchasing a flashy vehicle. I know I should love and accept myself the way I am, and I honestly do try to embrace body positivity. In my heart, I know that it’s what’s on the inside of a person that counts. But unfortunately for me, what’s on the inside is a super huge vagina.
That’s why I’ve come to this car dealership to purchase a vehicle so sleek, so compact, and so ridiculously out of my price range that people will look at me and say, “Damn, with a flashy car like that, I bet her cooter is as tight as Scrooge McDuck.”
I’m tired of driving around in my current car, a 1992 Ford Tempo that screams, “Her slot is looser than the ones at Circus Circus.”
I need a car that makes people assume my inside corset is cinched up like the waist of the main character in a Jane Austen novel.
I know, some people claim that size doesn’t matter. They say it’s not the size of the boat, but the motion in the ocean. Unfortunately for me, I’m not the boat in that metaphor.
And regrettably, many a dinghy has been lost at sea, never to text back again after sailing into my Bermuda Triangle.
I don’t want an ocean for a vagina. I want a stream or a rivulet, or better yet, the log ride at Six Flags where the tube is just big enough for the log, and everyone has a good time, screams a little, and the log emerges wet and ready to go again in a few minutes.
Just how big is my vagina, you ask? That’s a weird question from a car salesman, but I’ll allow it since I did bring up the topic in the first place.
Let me try to explain it to you. I was once asked to participate in The Vagina Monologues, and I brought the house down. That is to say, they closed the curtain on me when I still hadn’t finished describing my vagina after seven and a half hours.
Do you remember the Women’s March? My pussy hat can double as a sleeping bag for a small family.
In fact, my vagina is so monumental that Georgia O’Keeffe tried to paint it in her final few years of life. Unfortunately, it was such a big job that she never finished. “Bring me more paint!” she yelled from her deathbed.
What I’m saying is, if you want to eat my happy meal, it comes strictly supersized.
My Holiday Inn only books extended stays.
You may need a bucket and a mop if you hook up with Cardi B, but if you hook up with me, I suggest you invest in an industrial wet vac and prepare to file a claim for flood damage on your homeowner’s insurance because your carpet and baseboards will be ruined.
But I’m sure I can compensate for my giant vagina by cruising around town in a ride so slick and showy that everyone who sees me will think, “That is the car of a woman whose snatch is snugger than a pair of pre-pregnancy jeans.”
The right car might even help me meet the right man.
What kind of man am I looking for? I’m glad you asked. You, sir, are an excellent salesperson. I have the feeling that you will understand when I say that even though I have a huge vagina, I need and deserve love as much as anyone else. All I’m looking for is a good man—a kind, decent, understanding man who also happens to have a ginormous dick.
Listen to me going on and on. You’re not just an excellent salesperson but also an excellent listener. But I know your job is to sell me a car, not listen to my insecurities. So, now that you know what I’m looking for, let’s do this thing. I’m more than ready to hit the gas, grab the gearstick, and test drive all of your hottest rods.