What a stupid fucking piece-of-shit one-note hack idea. Right? I mean, look: To be fair, it was my idea, and it seemed medium-funny at the meeting two weeks ago. But atthis point (Sunday night, 11:33 p.m.), I have just spent a week—seven beautiful, festive, rosy-cheeked, cookie-laden days—hunched miserably over a keyboard straining, word by word, to squeeze a full-length "article" out of what is essentially just a mildly amusing novelty headline.

What did you do this weekend? Did you have fun? Eat pancakes? Read a book? Steam-clean the rugs? NOT ME. I sat on my couch in my underpants (cold feet, sweaty armpits—electric baseboard heat is like a permanent flu simulator built into the apartment) and tried to imagine what kind of a personality Kim Cattrall's vagina would have if it were a sentient being instead of just a pocket of folded mucus membranes. All. Week. And then I realized something: OOPS, MY LIFE IS STUPID.

I had a couple of basic ideas here. My original idea was that Kim Cattrall's vagina should be super-erudite, elegant, and wise, with a sort of wry, parental affection for Cattrall and her shenanigans. It started out like this:

Ah, regret. Was it not T. S. Eliot who said, "Footfalls echo in the memory down the passage which we did not take, towards the door we never opened into the rose-garden"?

Instantly bored. Oh well. Didn't work. My second idea was that Kim Cattrall's vagina should basically be Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. Here's as far as I got on that one:

'Ello, guv'nah! Wot's all this, then? Wot's all this? Step in toyme! Votes for wimmin!

Okaaaaaay, on second thought, that one makes me laugh. Like maybe it should be that Kim Cattrall's vagina is literally Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins—like Cattrall and Bert the chimney sweep were both shopping for last-minute stocking stuffers in Chinatown and when the inscrutable shopkeep was off oiling his long mustache, Cattrall impulsively stole some ancient Chinese amulet by, uhhhh, hiding it up her vagina (like ya do), and then whilst hurrying away with her ill-gotten gains she ran around a corner and, BONK!—straight into Bert! And from there it's just your typical Freaky Friday scenario —which, incidentally, means that Bert the chimney sweep spent the rest of his days saddled with the brain of an old lady's vagina. Hey, maybe that explains Diagnosis Murder! Heyo! ZINGGG! Ahhhhhhhhh, never mind. Sometimes a joke just doesn't work.

I'm going to bed.