Over at American Times, beard enthusiast and first-among-LOOG-equals E.D. Kain reminds American women of a happier time, when they could gorge themselves on ironized yeast in hopes of turning into Jayne Mansfield.
But lest the League‘s distaff readership pine too hard for happier days, I feel obligated to remind them that the middle of the last century wasn’t all strolls on the beach. It also held this harsh reality:
That’s right, sisters. Your lady-bits were apparently such a teeming, pestilential hazard that there was little to do but flush them with Lysol. As in, the household cleanser. (Sadly, not all women heeded this prudent advice, and their disgusted, frustrated husbands were forced to leave them. They eventually formed colonies in Key West, Chelsea and the Castro district of San Francisco.)
Another one after the jump.
That’s right, housewives! Your husbands shun you because of your foul, foul private anatomy. (That must be the reason you “spend the evenings alone.”) The only hope is to clean like the dickens with the same stuff you use to scrub the toilets.
(I came across this priceless bit of Americana a few years ago, after discovering a really old bottle of Lysol in a forgotten utility closet at work. There were instructions on the label for various uses, including “personal hygiene.” Google confirmed what my unbelieving eyes told me. Suddenly I had a whole new appreciation for Betty Friedan.)