They dared me. Those other mothers at the school yard triple dog dared me to write a letter to my vagina, and this is it. Warning, the material you are about to view is graphic in nature. Turn back now if thou eyes offend. If you lack the constitution to smell the brown nugget to find out if it’s chocolate or poop, or to blindly stick your arm down the skid-marked-laced cold porcelain of the toilet hole to retrieve barbie’s shoe, you probably took a wrong turn back there somewhere. Turn back now. This is the wrong side of town for you. Locking your doors won’t keep you safe from what I’m about to say.
Dear Pandora’s Pastrami Box:
All life begins from you. From your chaos. And as the host of your lovely apocalypse, I must say, it sucks being a woman, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Everyone seems to think God is benevolent. He is. He will love you. He will die for you. He will endure torture for you. He will come back to life for you (which is probably harder than dying in the first place). But His anger… The Bible warns about the wrath of God, and you, my lovely little meat drapes, are perfect evidence of this wrath. Don’t fuck with God. Eve you hear me up there? Stop that shit.
I dare not mention the graphic material I used to describe what it was like to start this period to my husband this morning. You can imagine it was more graphic than your most violent video game. Let’s just say I had gas too. Nothing can be conjured more disgusting than a period fart. Blood bubbles people. And not just blood bubbles, but blood bubbles out of your ass. Stephen King and Quentin Tarantino couldn’t come up with anything more foul. Did you just vomit in your mouth a little? That’s probably a sign that you are a man. Or piss yourself laughing? That’s probably a sign that you are a fellow Amazonian Queen.
So after going on and on about period fart bubbles with my husband this morning, laughing at every face expression that resembled someone who just did a shot of whiskey, I followed it with, “So do you want steak for dinner? What about something with strawberry jam?”
Do you see the sadism? That’s sadism at its finest.
But all that is part of it. The disgust. The sadism… There’s more.
Ok. A woman ate fruit. FRUIT. That’s it. That’s all she did.
And as punishment? She definitely had to die, but not without cursing every woman in all her future generations. With what? How does one describe the period? It’s more abstract than describing things like love. There’s just so many variables…
Basically, once a month, Satan comes to every woman and jams an AK-47 through her meat drapes like it’s a decorative curtain rod and empties a perpetual clip, shooting bullet after bullet every half second, nonstop, for 3 to 5 days, while laughing maniacally. Why 3 to 5 days? Because that’s how long it takes to tear through a piece of the uterine wall. Chuck Norris can’t even keep up with that.
She won’t die. Oh no. She lives through that torture. She endures it. And she doesn’t refer to it for what it really is, “A snatch shit,” no we refer to it as, “discarding an unused egg.”
Meanwhile, the hormones are like, “You need chocolate. Get chocolate. Fucking get that fucking chocolate right fucking now! Why are we eating chocolate? I wanted ice cream, not chocolate you stupid bitch.” Then you cry because somewhere in the world, a puppy doesn’t have a home. And your kid walks up to you and says, “I want dinner,” and you start crying tears of joy, “I’m so glad you still need me. Never grow up!”
In another part of this fucked-up universe, the men are like, “Ewww, go sit in a hole in the ground. You are unclean. Unworthy of me. And quit bitching. You know what’s worse than having a period? Listening to a woman have her period. My back hurts. Fetch me some ice and Motrin woman, and take out the trash, I’m too injured to do it myself.Oh my back! Why me? Please don’t talk about your period. That’s just too gross. Do you even care about my feelings? Here I am with back pain and a possible man flu coming on, and you are talking about your filthy woman things.”
This goes on ONCE A MONTH. I’m sorry. I love my God. I would not be here if it weren’t for my God. But it’s possible God is better at evil than evil itself. I mean. I’m just saying. This is evidence that we should not fuck with God. His wrath is crazier than a bitch on PMS. Wait a minute. A bitch on PMS IS HIS WRATH!
Which is exactly why if I were President, I’d form, as Commander-In-Chief, a special forces comprised of all women. They would be my secret weapon. They would drive a pink tank, and I would call them, “The Crimson Tide.”
The only force I can imagine to be greater than the crazy of a period is to have women on their period form a gang. Dear Bone Thugs and Harmony, you may swang with a clique-tight clan, but I swang with the Poontang Clan. Yeah. Just play dead you fucking pansies.
So to my uncooked bacon gliders, you are my torture. You are my pain. And because of that, you have made me stronger. You have made me the mightiest force this world has to offer. You have empowered me.
The strength and might doesn’t stop there. No. You are the very reason I have a power no man can do. I can bear fruit. Crotch fruit. It’s like cloning myself. I made these little minions of love who can annihilate a doctor’s office on my shit list faster than Thing 1 and Thing 2 in Dr. Seussland. As if the period couldn’t sever the world enough as a weapon of mass destruction, the sinister Beaver Bitch had to go and create something even more diabolically destructive: children (otherwise known as Mayhem). Periods are apocalyptic, havoc-dipped slaughterhouses in of itself. Being without a period is worse.
Then on top of it all, the men are obsessed with this thing. When in the history of mankind has a pork sword gotten a man a job? Or out of a speeding ticket? How many women buy their male dates dinner, a down comforter, and a diamond necklace? Power of the Pussy. It gets you free shit. Nothing in this universe can persistently perplex a man better than some tits and poontang. If you really think about feminism, we’ve had the power all along. We just haven’t completely harnessed it.
So thank you, Pandora’s Pastrami Box. Thank you for making the word bitch synonymous to power. Thank you for making women warriors. Thank you for that fabulous orgasm last month (we need to do that more often). Thank you for creating life.
The Bitch Behind your Bitch
Michelle L. Grewe
Now I’d like to take a moment to thank Aleve. They are not paying me for this. I’m just so grateful they curb those cramps enough to write this. Aleve is the reason women are happy on tampon commercials. Whoever invented Aleve deserves an award, a Nobel Peace Prize, a cookie, and a daily blow job. Dr. George Rosenkranz invented it, synthesized cortisone (for pain), and invented a lot of crap we use in birth control and contraceptives (thank you for empowering women in so many ways).
Bet you didn’t know, “Naproxen may have anti-viral activity against influenza. Specifically, it blocks the RNA-binding groove of the nucleoprotein of the virus, thereby preventing formation of the ribonucleoprotein complex, thus taking the vital nucleoproteins out of circulation.”
All I got from that is “Take Aleve for your period AND THE FLU!”
PMS SHIRT I ADDED
and the back?
Here’s a fabulous video about the event…