We beseech you, gentle reader: please remove your children from the room before you "click" on this latest bit of alarming news from the womb of America. The bloom, we fear, is completely off the rose; the delicate flower of womanhood, once concealed from prurient eyes by modest burlap sackcloth and lack of enfranchisement, is today being flaunted in short-shorts like just another cheap commodity. What are bawdy tarts doing these days, when they're not busy inadvertently teaching your child about vaginas? They're having babies—without their husband's permission.
The latest front in America's whorish War on Decency could be as close as the drug store aisle. Our nation's Pandora-like women, outfitted in buttocks-baring short shorts as they prowl the landscape for the "good time" Appletini party boy of the night, now demand the right to have unspeakable varieties of grossly sexual concoctions and tools for prodding into nameless bodily crevices available for purchase at every small-town retailer and drug store. How long before your child comes home from a "candy run" to reveal a mouthful not of Lik-M-Aid but of KY Jelly, what with its eye-catching, alluring packaging?
The other day, a magazine arrived addressed to a former occupant of my apartment. It was a copy of The Nest magazine, which is published by theknot.com. The thinking seems to be that women go to theknot.com and buy The Knot magazine to prepare for their weddings, and then once they're married, they move on to The Nest. If there was ever a reason to want to avoid becoming a "married," as they refer to themselves, this would be it.
When New York and Rolling Stone writer Vanessa Grigoriadis got a boyfriend and went west a few years back, everyone despaired. People were really downright sniffy about it, as they should be. But everyone figured, well, she always did do a lot of yoga, and without that veneer of irony. Maybe some time on the non-smoking coast would do her good! And for the most part it seems like California treated her well. She didn't have that breakdown that looms before us all in the late early 30s. Yet. But you know what happened? Her hot boyfriend got fat. And he didn't care. And then last year she married him anyway. Of course it took the homo publicist in her boyfriend's office to set things right: "'Your boyfriend is getting fat,' he hissed." But any New York homosexual would have headed the fatness off at the pass months or even years earlier. Even the gays are lazily hissy in L.A.