Certainly, I’m going to expect a measure of upset when I say that the idea of the vaginal monologues caused
all manner of unbidden images to arise.

A small mannish figure standing in front, not yelling ‘ricola’ but ‘Hellooo, helllooo, hellllooo’…. receiving no answer
saying, ‘damn, that’s deep,’ with the last words ‘…eep’ echoing endlessly.

Or three little bears popping out whispering, ‘Shhh, she’s still hibernating.’

Mostly what came to mind with the idea of the talking horn of plenty was ‘ok, who’s the ventriloquist’:
what maroon decided to perversely define themselves by identifying with what colloquially some women refer to as ‘Miss Thing,’ re: Addams Family.

I’m only guessing that one of these images would not endear me to the fierce and rabid.

Conversely, what guy would wish to be defined by a talking cock. Look what happened to Adam when Eve gobbled the apples.

Because you can define a metaphor that seems to work when you’re catering to desperate classes of individuals, indulgence
in doing so reflects a lack of integrity of aptness and significance that is completely obvious when it is caricatured.

You know: like, ‘Baa, baa black sheep, have you any wool, Miss’?

Or, you like flowers too much, hand-puppet. Recall that paper cut up and offered forward with fingers
stuck inside, mouthing ‘wah, wah’ as Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice cries.

That’s your glove: no identifying characteristics, no sense of comfort or love. Just the camouflage of
denial amid a festival of accusation not open to rebuttal.

As if mystifying, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

But who’d settle for that dark penumbra over their heads like a damaged halo or suffocating cover not to protect or alter
anything, but to suffocate any dissent with a limping impediment guaranteed to establish a hindrance to exactly what it claims to desire removal.

An unholy dunce cap more suited to the complainant than the suggested defects of its focus, and in that a distracting
dialogue of broken tongues and cunnilingual displacement evoking the true hunger not named.

You know the last thing you ought to do is clam up like some wounded sea-lion flapping its gums, or Venus on the half shell come true, all silent and dumb.

©Dean Baker

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