How big is it?

Ponder this what as I found on Fark today:

Victoria Lundy, 41, in custody in Chillicothe, Ohio, in January for a barroom shooting, apparently smuggled her gun into the jail at the time of her arrest by putting it inside her vagina. A shot was fired in a holding cell, and according to a fellow prisoner interviewed by the Chillicothe Gazette, the gun had gone off when Lundy sat down on a bench in the cell. (No one was hit.)

Isn't the vagina an amazing thing? It's nice and warm and self-cleaning, and all KINDS of things can fit in there! A short list of things I've seen or heard about or experienced might include:

Bananas, cucumbers, carrots, candles, adult toys, boy parts, fingers, toes, ping-pong balls, babies' heads, flashlights, speculae, cotton swabs, tampons, smallish zucchini, and "there are many many many more things I'm not mentioning but you get the idea and can fill in your own personal favorites to complete this here list."

But.......really.......a gun? Don't you think that would be a teeny bit, uh, uncomfortable?

The chafe factor alone would be more than a little off-putting, even for a discreet purse-sized ladies handweapon.

If it were me thinking about putting that LOADED GUN in my happy place I'd be a smidge concerned about the rust factor, but maybe this was a plastic gun (do they have those?) because possibly Ms Lundy is a thinker-aheader like that.

I might also be a tiny bit concerned about the "ammo-in-the-cootchie" aspect of this personal protection caper, but apparently plopping down on a prison bench with a few live rounds in your cooter doesn't hurt anyone (because, as the article says, no one was hit), if, presumably, your love muffin is BIG ENOUGH TO HOLD A GUN!

Also, I thought guns wouldn't fire if they got wet...

You know - I do learn somethin' new every daggone day.

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Hey - in case you're wondering - I have indeed been treating my face with Efudex for the last almost 2 weeks, and damned if I don't look like a third-stage syphilitic! Kissably scabby, that's me! Lovely flaky chunks of pre-diseased flesh are peeling off of my nasolabial lines as we speak; there's a veritable shower of Cover Girl "ultra pale" foundation-tinted senescent epithelium in the forecast.

If I yawn widely enough I can feel the the scaly bits pulling, stretching, yearning to break free, to fly away in the breeze if lucky enough or perhaps to merely fall onto my pants legs as I sit here and type.

Just One More Day and I'm done.

The healing can't come soon enough.