If you ever wonder if the world is getting stupider, all you have to do is look at the warning labels on practically anything you own and you’ll have your answer. Like yesterday when I was using my prescription dry scalp shampoo (which I need because the only way I can keep warm during the months of December through March is by taking showers in water hot enough to sterilize surgical instruments) and I happened to notice a very disturbing notation on the bottle:
Warning: Not for Transvaginal Use
Now, at first I was puzzled. I stood in the shower, letting the scalding water caress my skin like an angry CIA agent, and I tried to figure out what “transvaginal” meant. Is there some kind of freeway or railroad that crosses the Vaginal Mountains, I wondered? The Vaginosis Mountains? The Prairies of Vag? You know, like the Trans-Siberian railroad crosses Russia? And if that’s the case, why couldn’t the prescription dry scalp shampoo be used on this road? Does it lose efficacy in high altitudes? Explode at high speeds? Pose a national security risk to America’s borders? And what about the poor souls with itchy heads who were on a long road trip across Vagi Canyon? What the hell were they supposed to do? Take the transpenile route instead? And exactly how long is that route, anyway? Because yes, it matters.
(Oh, man. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what’s going on with me today, but I guess I sort of have to see this through now.) (Please don’t unsubscribe.)
But then, as I stepped out of the shower looking like a female lobster gone to seed, I remembered where I’d heard the word “transvaginal” before. No, not in a women’s health class. Or in a woman’s magazine. I heard it during the 2012 elections when “transvaginal probe” became a super trendy buzz word among certain lawmakers. I think they were trying to make it a law that women had to get one before dental cleanings or something? Or when they applied for a driver’s license? I’m not entirely sure because I tend to black out whenever 70-year-old white guys start talking about my nether regions. I’m sure you understand. They probably black out when I talk about probing them, too.
Which brings us to my “Aha!” moment: I finally realized that the reason that warning is on my bottle of prescription dry scalp shampoo is because some poor dumb schmuck tried to use it in a place that’s pretty far south of a dry scalp. Pretty. Far. South. God only knows what that freak was doing in the shower to keep warm. Probably something gross involving loofahs. At any rate, I’m guessing the whole thing ended in a big old lawsuit and now we have to have warning labels to keep us safe in the shower.
And on all of our transvaginal roadtrips.
(Please don’t unsubscribe.)
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Thank you all for commenting on my last post. The randomly chosen winner of Peyton Price’s Suburban Haiku is Julia!
And in an effort to redeem myself after the above, here’s a funny video I made with fellow beauty blogger Shari Simpson:
Not only am I not unsubscribing, I’m forwarding this to my Grandpa Knute.
I’m pretty sure he lived in the Prairies of Vag when he first moved here from Sweden.
Either there, or Chicago.
Some place windy. That I know.
Nope, sorry – The warning label on my kid’s scooter still wins the Stupid Warning Label of the Year award.
This sounds deadly. You need to change to a different shampoo.
Unsubscribe? This makes me want to resubscribe.
Well, I am so glad you cleared that up because I have been known to take far too long showers with far too hot water and I might encounter such shampoo. Who knows? I might have just gone all crazy and thought to use it everywhere. I am now fairly warned and will not be surprised and thus turned into a lobster.
😀
Traci
With the current Twilight and 50 Shades of Gray crazes in pseudo literature, I’m considering a series based on oversexed vampires from Transvaginal, Romania.
Help me publish, mmmkay?
I assumed that warning was for those who have undergone male-to-female sex reassignment surgery.
At least, that’s what I told my Attorney…
I snorted all the way through this. Next thing you know, Carnival is going to be scheduling a cruise through the Transvaginal Canal. With fruity drinks.
Sometimes I watch TV Land on weekdays during the day (long story), and they have all those ambulance chasers on there urging you to contact them if you or a loved one suffered pain or death or even mild discomfort after being somehow involved with such and such drug or medical procedure because no doubt you’re entitled to a big pile of money, and one of those they advertise about is transvaginal mesh. Now, usually when I see ads like that and I’ve never heard of whatever it is, I think, “WTF is that?” and go google it immediately. When they start talking about transvaginal mesh, I just clench my thighs together and pretend I didn’t hear a thing. Whatever mesh it is that’s crossing someone’s…well down there, you know, I don’t want to know anything about it.
“Praries of vag” – I think that is hilarious. And now I need to see how I can work that into a conversation. It is too good not to!
I think transvaginal is a ride at Disney.
Hee! I can’t help myself from being a buzzkill (which is something I need to discuss with my shrink), but prescription dandruff meds are also used a body wash for certain skin conditions.
Even then, I sort of intuitively knew that I needed to keep the stuff away from Vagi Canyon.