So just when you think you've heard of everything your sister throws a "Vajazzling" at you over the yum cha table. "Va.... what?" I stammer.
"You know, Vajazzling... bedazzling for your vajayjay." She says it in a manner which implies that this is a fact everyone knows. Humans require oxygen to live, pigs can not fly, vajazzling is bedazzling for your vajayjay. Of course! Der! Tell me something I don't know!
Apparently this newly created attempt to befuddle money out of over-preened young women involves waxing your lady parts followed by an application of Swarovski crystals to the general area. If you don't believe me (and surely I wouldn't believe myself) take a look at THIS.
In my youth, when mammoths roamed the earth and Adam Ant was the height of masculine good looks and sophistication, we would preen ourselves by plaiting our freshly washed hair into 100 teeny weeny tiny plaits (thanks to my friend's teeny weeny tiny braces elastics) on a Friday night, resulting in a head of diabolical frizz on a Saturday morning. Imagine, going to a lot of trouble to achieve frizz!
This Medusa-like frizz would be complemented with an outfit of a short black tutu, shiny tights where one leg was black and one bright red, a t-shirt of red and white stripes and very pointy, black patent leather shoes.
So I know how to go about attracting a mate of the opposite gender and I also know that women have been doing this successfully for millions of years (unless you don't believe in evolution, in which case they've been doing so for just over 2000 years, a theological point I probably don't have completely correct). Any old how, what I'm getting at is that we seem to have been perpetuating the human race in a reasonably successful manner for a very long time without the help of Vajazzling. Obviously men have been totally repulsed by our non-Vajazzled vajayjays (I just love saying "vajayjay", try it, you'll like it) for all these years.
I know that Big Jay, upon returning from his golfing sojourn to Coffs Harbour on Wednesday night, will be pleasantly surprised when he ventures underneath the stretched out Target pyjama pants of questionable vintage and the giant, washed-to-within-an-inch-of-it's-life Antony and The Johnsons t-shirt which is my lingerie of choice in the boudoir. Know what I'm saying?