Gwyneth Paltrow steams her vagina. Artist Tracey Emin has married a rock. Gwyneth didn’t marry a rock; just a rock star. Rock stars are tricky and notorious for getting their rocks off where they shouldn’t. Jerry Hall‘s solution was to give Mick a blowjob before he left home.

Rocks don’t need blow jobs and don’t even have a penis, although some have knobbly protuberances. I doubt Ms. Emin’s husband was chosen for his sexual attributes.

“It just means that at the moment I am not alone; somewhere on a hill facing the sea, there is a very beautiful ancient stone, and it’s not going anywhere, she said of her recent marriage.

The stone is ‘nice’ and ‘impressive.’

The nuptials took place beneath an olive tree in her garden. The bride wore her father’s white funeral shroud. The rock wore a stony face. They didn’t bother with a honeymoon. No wedding gifts were required. What do you give a rock? Maybe a large beanie.

Like its spiritual brother, the Pet Rock, the husband rock would be very low maintenance. No running home to cook its dinner, listen to it whine about its day, or put up with any of its bullshit. Affairs would be limited to insects, birds and that clingy lichen (and possibly another rock, but who cares) and you would always win an argument. Not that you’d even bother arguing with a spouse so ancient it knew everything. Later, as the years passed, it would never become ill, unless a bit fell off, which would only make it more craggy and interesting. It would never up and die on you or demand a pre-nup and move its mother in.

There is a lot to be said about this strong silent type. You could forget about looking your best and, after a hot, steamy downpour if you were in the mood, you could just climb on up onto it and give your vagina a spring clean.