Tanner Bothers Ramona

Conversation About The Nastiness of The World

"What bothers me," Ramona said, "is that so many men seem to think women are just fuck-holes."

"Like my uncle Remus used to say, 'It's a ho' that always feels good to dip yo' wick in,'" he smirked.

"You say that as if it might be some sort of extraordinary news," she said sarcastically.

"No. No, I suppose it isn't. Still, it's worth thinking about now and again, because it's so important, so—omnipresent, really!"

"And what do you think about it, then, if you must say?" she asked.

Ramona's curiosity about his vulgar notions was sometimes greater than she was willing to admit. Not everyone would talk so freely—well, perhaps not freely, but certainly without any common sense of restraint—about their own ugliness as Tanner would, she'd found. She couldn't help finding it interesting, though sometimes it went too far, of course.

"Ugliness always goes too far," she thought.

"It's all very basic, I think," Tanner told her, then paused.

"Well, explain it to me like I'm stupid, then," she said, irritated with his dawdling manner.

"Ah, well—I mean, just how goddamn good it feels, and always feels! A woman's vagina is the best "satisfaction device" ever devised."

"Yeah, sure," she growled, "and it's 'portable' too, and nearly 'self-servicing! Isn't that nice?"

"Don't distract me while I'm plotting against you, Ramona. It's rude."

"Shit," she said acidly.

"Yeah, right. Anyway, the worst one in the world is a good one—that's the male view.

"A vagina doesn't have to have any particular attributes at all, does it?" she said, her tone clearly acrimonious.

"No, not really. Some men like to pretend that 'tight pussies' are important to them, but I don't remember ever finding one that wasn't soft enough or tight enough or anything else enough, and I can't imagine that anyone else has either! I've never found one that was anything short of just fuckin' wonderful!"

"Christ forever," she said dully.

"Amen."

"What am I supposed to do, thank you on behalf of women everywhere?"

"No, not at all. We thank you, if it comes to that," he told her. "But it's all true, you know, whether it impresses you or not, and whether you like to be reminded about it or not. It's one of the few things in the world that can't be ruined by psychological bullshit. Everyman's dick likes everywoman's pussy because pussies don't need to have any particular attributes! Pussies don't have to be talented, you know! A woman's cunt would be popular even if it wasn't attached to a woman.

"Say hallelujah!" Ramona said angrily. Her face was turning red. "Goddamn it, I guess you think that in some cases it'd be even more popular if it wasn't attached!"

"There's no question about it. Excuse me, but if I'm going to be this vulgar, I might as well speak realistically too. A 'good pussy', after all, only has to be there. A good dick just about has to be erect. It has to do something, you know, it has to work! A flaccid dick may be a friendly little thing, but it's no good to anybody—except to pee with, of course."

"Is all of this leading up to something, or is it just a bunch of obscene observations?"

"Both," he grinned. "It's the obvious, and yet it's subtle too, I feel."

"And what might that be?" she asked.

"That nothing in life's as free of prejudice and particularity as men's attitudes toward women's vaginas."

"You sure can't say the same about their attitude toward women," she said with a disapproving look.

"Yeah. Unfortunately, true. Some men may get carried away and think that women are nothing but cunts, and even call them that when they get angry and want to hurt their feelings or demean them. But that's really a terrible distortion of the English language, a dysfunction of violence in the sexual brain, so to speak."

"Wait a minute. What's that mean, exactly?"

"Well, a man calling a woman a cunt is actually calling her the most wonderful thing he knows about, and yet he means it as an insult."

"They certainly do!" Ramona said firmly. "And probably you do, too!"

"Okay, okay! I know. I figure it this way—what a man really means when he talks like that is "nothing but a cunt" and nobody likes to be considered just a sexual part any more than we'd appreciate being considered just an incorporeal brain or a palpable asshole. These are all just body parts, not an intelligent synthesis or fair evaluation of our true selves or an attractive essence of our souls, which—one thing or the other, I believe—is what we all wish to be. Anyway, how we all wish to be perceived.

"You know that, I know that. Hell, a lot of men and women know it. But it just doesn't have any influence at all over any man's attitude about any woman's vagina! I love it unconditionally, like everyone else. I love it whether it loves me back, I love it whether I get any or not, I love it when it's far away, or on-the-way, or leaving town at 90 miles an hour and flipping me the finger! I love the sound it makes, the smell it makes, and the rumors that spread in every direction concerning it. So, there."

"Oh, what the hell does all that mean, though?" she insisted. "Just that you're a sex-fiend and a sexist like the rest, doesn't it?"

"I guess it does. It means, too, that no matter what man loves you, how much or how well, you'll always be a cunt. It ain't just me, and it ain't just the ones you don't like. It's the nastiness of the world. Our animality cannot be avoided."

"Yes, you sorry bastard, and I have a right to think that's depressing," she said. "I think it's ugly!"

"Yes," he sighed. "I know you do—you're a woman. And like so many women, you think your pussy's ugly and that the men who chase it round and round in circles are even uglier. Psychologically, you may be right, I don't know. I'm not a woman, and your psychology doesn't apply to me."

"Oh, God," she exclaimed, "that's just wonderful! Now we have sexist psychology, too!"

"Why not?" he grinned. "I think men invented psychology and such primarily to explain women's sexuality and lack of sexuality to themselves. Their own sexuality, they always understood. They knew sex was always dirty and that they always wanted some. We'd hump a dog's leg if things got lean enough, and we certainly can't understand why women have to be talked into it."

"You sound like you're arguing both sides of the street now, I guess you realize that," she told him.

"I guess I am," he laughed. He laughed until she stared at him and frowned.

"What are you laughing about, anyway?" she asked.

"Just that I'm always on both sides of an issue, especially one like this. I used to be a woman, you know."

"What?!"

"I used to be a woman, you know," he repeated.

"What the hell does that mean?" she insisted.

"Oh, don't you remember? It's one of the lyrics in an old Neil Young song."

"Ah—well, vaguely. It was kind of a vague song even at the time. It talked about chopping down a tree for 87 years or something like that, didn't it? Anyway, what are you talking about?"

"That I'm sensitive," he replied.

"That's ridiculous!" she laughed. "I've never heard anything funnier!"

"Thanks a lot!" he grinned.

"Oh, you're not particularly sensitive, Tanner, you're just fuckin' touchy!"

"Yeah, but I used to be sensitive—when I was young. I used to get upset when men talked crudely about women. And that ought to count for something, don't you think?"

"Maybe so, but I doubt it does. What the hell are you talking about? Without knowing that, I can't know very well whether you are even sensible, much less sensitive—or not. So shaddup!"

"I'm shuttin' up over here, Boss," he grinned.

Ronald C. Southern
4th draft: 04/14/05

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"To Ramona"--full lyrics by Bob Dylan

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