It produces tremendous sadness among consenting adults. A terrifyingly disheartening experience, it causes great distrust between couples. A neglected, regrettable cubbyhole of human sexuality, it has ruined thousands of relationships.

It produces tremendous sadness among consenting adults. A terrifyingly disheartening experience, it causes great distrust between couples. A neglected, regrettable cubbyhole of human sexuality, it has ruined thousands of relationships.

When a woman’s vagina wrecks a tender moment with a loud, unexpected expulsion of Cunt Gas, what is the discerning gentleman to do? When the giant slimy clam opens its mouth and belches, what is the proper etiquette? Do you ignore it…or try to console her…or do you tell her how truly repelled you are? Or do you reply with a friendly fart of your own?

Even if she only does it once, and even if you don’t tell your parents or clergymen about it, her slovenly vaginal eructation will always be in the back of your mind, forever destroying any hopes for total intimacy. It’s something you need to talk about with your physician and your marriage counselor, and even if they’re helpful, the damage may have already been done.

Gents, we’re talking about pussy farts. Beaver burps. Muff music. Queefs. The medical term, “vaginal flatulence,” sounds like the name of a death-metal band. But whatever you call it, at least call it “disgusting.”

Since it typically happens during moments of sexual rapture, at those rare, blessed moments when men and women share each others’ bodies and spirits in the fullness of what it means to be a Sexual Being, the pussy fart is perhaps the single most disgusting and soul-destroying bodily function known to mankind. Unfortunate human realities such as body odor and anal mishaps are the domain of both sexes; vaginal flatulence, like menstruation, belongs in a Realm of Disgust exclusive to the fairer sex. Both male and female genitals can be seen, touched, tasted, and smelled. But only the vagina boldly ventures into the fifth sense—that of sound.

Flurpf! Fwomp! Blurp! Flap! Splat! Thar she blows! A warm, wet, stinky blast from the vaginal steamhole. How charming. How dainty. How thoroughly ladylike. Even without vaginal flatulence, the female procreative organs are a repulsive parfait of mucus membranes intermittently exploding with blood; the pussy fart is the cherry on top, proving forevermore that WOMEN CAN BE ICKY.

So whenever a group of women start raggin’ about how all men are disgusting, all you need to do is say two words:

“PUSSY FARTS.”

The room will become silent. The women will either slink away in shame or attack you en masse.

Millions of American women not-so-silently endure the humiliation and social stigma of involuntary vaginal flatulence. What’s worse is that there’s no way to tell whether a potential mate will be prone to queefing. It’s not like the vagina is a coal mine and you can send a canary in there to test whether it’s safe.

I have a friend who, back in his high-school days, dated a gal who once pussy-farted nonstop for a half-minute after he withdrew his meatbone from her.

It was to be their last date. The next day in school, he told everyone of her vagina’s didgeridoo-like performance. They all laughed and started making cruel farting noises whenever she’d walk by them in the hallway. She was emotionally crushed and probably became a nun or a stripper.

I once knew a girl who queefed so much, it was as if her cunt was a set of worn bagpipes hiding under her tartan schoolgirl dress. Her slit was a frickin’ whoopie cushion. She spent much of our relationship speaking through a muff megaphone. She was ashamed of her relentlessly belching cuntflaps. Her mortification at queefing was directly tied to the hatred she bore for her vagina, which was directly tied to her guilt, which was directly tied to her low self-esteem, which was directly tied to the lowness of her self. She localized her self-hatred in the act of queefing, rather than the proper place, i.e. her entire being.

And yet, maybe we’re looking in all the wrong places, too. One often mistakenly searches for profound answers amid the tangible and pragmatic. As we all know, the vagina is a gateway into the mystical. Perhaps the reason we can find no concrete answers about the pussy fart is that it’s hard to find spiritual things stuck amid common, vile sewage.

Is it possible that a pussy fart is actually the voice of the Goddess? Does a queefing cunt serve as some sort of Vaginal Oracle? Is that the voice of the Mother of All Creation speaking through the meat curtain? Is the pussy fart some sort of Lost Chord leading us all into a glorious, thousand-year gynocracy? Viewed in such a celestial light, the vagina becomes a spiritual vessel, sort of like a tooth filling that receives radio transmissions. And perhaps the message is urgent, like a dog trying to lead villagers to a child trapped down a well.

Maybe it sounds like dolphinspeak to us because our technology is too crude, our fall from grace too complete, to ever understand what Goddess is trying to say when she speaks through a pussy fart.

One mouth is never enough for a woman. Maybe we aren’t listening closely enough, and maybe there is a message deep inside those talking vaginas, if we can only get past our understandable disgust.

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