Author Archives: Deborah Stehr

Pray the Straight Away: My Gay Expiration Date?

Transcript of audio is below because Laughing Coyote is still learning how to edit audio and this ten minute LGBT set for Pride performed in Santa Fe, is alas, imperfect. Perhaps the laughter does drown out the sound of dishes clanking in the cafe? Let’s hope.


Gay Expiration Date

Well it’s official. This is my last week of being gay. After pride, I’ve decided to go straight.  Look, all that pray the gay away had the intended effect. Have you ever wondered where all that prayer goes once it leaves the church? Remember your physics people; energy transforms, it doesn’t just disappear.  Since breath is used to make the prayers, I’m guessing it just hangs out in the atmosphere waiting for a good breeze, sort of like an invisible homophobic sailing ship, or maybe some  clouds.  I think some random, wandering anti-gay prayer smacked me good one day when I was driving down I-25.

You know I’d like to see the warning sign for that on the highway. We have falling rocks, deer in the headlights, even Watch Out for Elk, (for the one elk that lives in New Mexico) but no sign saying: Warning  the Wind May Have Strong Anti-gay Impact. What would be the image on the sign warning of high pray the gay away wind content?  Or is there some kind of orange wind sock we can put up?  Or how about a barometric reading of some sort? Some way to know that disgusting homophobic humidity is high?


Actually no, that’s not what happened. Now no one told me this when I entered gaydom, but apparently your lesbian license can expire for lack of use. Apparently if you don’t get the RDA of gay (recommended daily requirement), your gayness can lapse. So it’s not that I want to be straight; it’s just that my queerness is expiring; you know like a driver’s license.  I didn’t know when I got my queer certification it meant- you are gay until July 1 2018.  That my license had conditions.  That’s just not fair. Heterosexuality doesn’t expire with lack of use, although I think maybe it should. How would that be for terror? Unless you have sex immediately, you will turn gay. That would be one way to increase pregnancy rates and save social security.)

I didn’t read the fine print which explained that if you go too long without a partner, you aren’t really a lesbian. Now you are wondering “How long has she gone? Too many years apparently. It’s a secret. There is another set of requirements addressing dating. I apparently have not achieved the minimum requirements.

In my defense (I went to the Gay Enforcement Office to argue my case. I said ‘what about all those lesbians with bed death? How about taking a look at them, huh? Why are you picking on me? Anyway I’m gay and I masturbate so that’s queer sex so check off all those boxes and leave me alone.


But apparently rules are rules!

So ladies you know what this means. There’s a whole week where one, or more of you lovely folks can save me. If you aren’t persuaded by my looks and charm, then why not Fuck me for politics sake? Take one for the team, fuck me for the vote, if you can’t think of any other reason—there’s an election coming up. My slogan this year is: Fuck the Straight Away! I tried to get some T-shirts printed up, but well, that didn’t happen.

Some of you are wondering if my license would still expire if I had sex with man (in case there are no women around willing to save me) Like I tell all the men in my life: if we have sex you will be having sex with a woman who is also a man inside, therefore we will be having some gay sex. So, are you still up for that? I’m not sure that kind of arrangement qualifies for gay/straight or other.

Some of you may be asking, “How about fucking a man? A gay or bi one? Would that renew your license?

My answer: well not the lesbian license per se, but the queer license—technically, yes (I was smart enough to check several boxes when I entered Gaydom).  He’s a guy and I’m a woman who is half guy, at least, it’s really about ¾.  So if we have sex that’s just pretty queer however you slice it.

But let’s have the women give it a whirl first.  I am offering a type of reward, other than just the wonder of being with me.  I have just created a new invention

I’ve invented an App for lesbians called “LezDate.” It’s an app designed to tell you if you are on a date or not. You just take it into the ambiguous social situation with you. When it’s gathered enough information, a plus sign will show if it’s positive for dating. You know like a pregnancy test. A negative sign will appear if you are just hanging out.

Wow I’m getting a plus sign; so I’m either pregnant or I’m dating someone in here right now?  How wonderful! Let’s hope she comes forward.


Okay, so before I go I want everyone to join hands and bow their heads…take a moment to Pray the Straight Away for our poor homophobic brothers and sisters in need. They have no idea what they are missing.

Categories: Lesbian-Gay Humor, Sexual humor, women's humor | Tags: , , | 4 Comments

The Earplug Cafe: An Introvert’s Nightmare


Why in a coffee shop am I always sitting next to the people who are talking the loudest? There are at least fifteen introverts in this coffee shop, mostly staring straight ahead but carefully employing side-eye from time to time; however I end up sitting next to all the fucking Chatty Cathy’s, which in this day of gender equality includes one man, granted he’s not saying much.

I’m wearing industrial strength, waxy, swimming earplugs to drown out whatever infernal music is pounding too loudly over the speaker—apparently coffee shops are required by law to play music at annoying decibels; silence or light flute music is a punishable offense, along with mindfulness.  Despite the plugs, I can still hear the sounds of those peoples’ inane conversation, plus their relative happiness. Relative to me. (Relative to the constant state of real happiness that undiscovered species living in a remote rain forest experience).

It all grates on my nerves. Don’t people know I do not go to cafes to relate to humanity? I go to cafes in order to get out of my living room and to remind myself that I’m not at work and that I should be happier. (I practiced smiling before I left the house.)

Finally the people leave. Unlike the Marines however, they left someone behind and I understand why in the next instance. She looks at me. I’m wearing earplugs. I have very short hair. She continues to try to catch my eye. I’m still wearing the earplugs. This is the point where I wish I had eye-plugs, or at least some kind of blinders, you know like a horse. In fact, as soon as this is over, I’m going to the horse store to buy some. Next time I come into the café, I will have earplugs and blinders, so I can only see my screen and what’s right ahead of me.

In fact, I’m going to create some designer Introvert Wear, including matching earplugs in various colors, like fuchsia, because even a blind person could see me wearing fuchsia earplugs. And maybe I will make the ear plugs blink. Evidently highway cone orange earplugs aren’t  bright enough because this woman is still trying to flag me down. I wonder if she’s having some kind of hidden emergency. Looking at my computer monitor, I hold very still, like a frozen bunny with orange earplugs in headlights.

I know she knows I have earplugs. Before her squad left her here, she had looked at me and pointed to my ear before turning back to her three buddies, all seniors, two women and one man, in bike shorts and other two-wheeling regalia. So she knew. Or at least that’s how I interpreted it at the time.

She turns out to not be very observant. Why is she trying to talk to me if it’s obvious I’m wearing earplugs? (Do I need to tattoo a Do Not Disturb sign on my forehead? Shave those words into my hair over my ears? (That would be disturbing!)

I’m a writer on a deadline. People are the last thing I need. This is why I live alone in the fucking desert twenty miles out of town in New Mexico. I know it’s my own fault for being in the café. But even I need a change of pace once in a while.

To assess the situation further, I use side eye, looking, I’m sure, a little bit like an insane thoroughbred. Horses give some crazy-ass side-eye.





She is gesticulating and talking.







“What?” I shout.  “Huh?” I say.  I type some more. “No,” I say responding randomly. Maybe she’ll think I’m talking to the voices in my head.

Now she’s talking louder like I’m deaf. Jesus fucking Christ.

Finally I pull out the left reverse-hearing aid (that’s techno speak in the earplug industry) and step fully into my martyrdom.  “What?”

She says, “Aren’t they sweet?” She’s referring to her missing squad of bicycling friends that left three minutes ago.

I pause. I know what she wants me to say, but I’m done being polite.  I say, “I have no idea. I don’t know them.”

She laughs a little, but looks a bit like a dentist just poked a sore tooth. Her half aborted smile hangs from one side of her face.

I grin widely. Misanthropy is fun.

She says, “Are you from here?”

I say, “I am, but I still don’t know them.”

She says, “I’ve lived here forever; I know lots of people and they are blah and blah and blah….talking about the opera and blah and blah and blah and they are totally nice and weren’t you impressed with their ability to converse and blah and blah and blah, so nice don’t you agree and blah blah fucking blah.”

I’m amazed. Does she not realize that not only do I not know those people, even if she does, I’ve been wearing earplugs and I have no fucking idea what they were all talking about, and if what they were talking about indicated a general niceness rather than some moderately elderly sociopathy? The only thing I was aware of was that one of the 32-speed-biker women was saying things very loudly and I kept wishing she would shut the hell up.

To hell with earplugs: I fucking need ear lids. Lids for the ears. Soundproof ear covers. The world is too goddamn loud. And stupid. I’m busy and it’s distracting. If they had coffee in the library I’d be there instead.

I’m on a deadline writing for a podcast and I have exactly zero ideas because I’m not used to writing only one half of a possible conversation instead of writing the whole thing. How can I possibly be funny spontaneously? I’m a Capricorn. Everything is planned. Even ignoring the plan is planned, a bit of deliberate, non-deliberateness. Purposive spontaneity. Being an introvert I know I can’t necessarily count on my interlocutory brilliance. Comments on demand. I am not that interesting. I am the most boring person I know in fact.

I am worried about podcasting because most human conversations are desultory which is why I usually write fiction. Fictional people are fascinating. Real people are usually boring pains-in-the-ass. I always end up comparing what they are saying with what they could be saying and after a while the conversation usually goes off the rails, as you can imagine. People complain that I don’t listen to them. I do though. I listen very carefully to what they should be saying

The woman has significant pigment discoloration covering both cheeks and I wonder if that’s a side effect of being oblivious of the needs of others around her. If so, maybe the discolored skin will soon cover her entire face and maybe grow upwards over her eyes, making her as physically blind as she is interpersonally.

Undaunted she asks, “What do you do?”

I said, “I’m a comedian.”

She laughs and says, “You’re not really….are you?”

“You’re laughing, aren’t you?” I said.

“I am, aren’t I?” she said wearing that sort of rueful, pained smile that looks like it’s been interrupted by a can opener.

I nod.

I am, of course, lying.

“Where are you performing?”

Right now in this chair. “Here in Santa Fe,” I said. Well it’s not exactly not true.


I dissemble again. I have no performances scheduled because I’m very new at this. I want to be paid to be a Professional Asshole, but not actually harm people, at least not physically. Not in a way that can be traced. There’s no x-ray for damaged cranial esteem. No liability either.

She’s saying, “Who’s that comedian who I don’t like him very much—who’s making a comeback?”

“That could be a lot of people,” I said wanting to ask her if she was aware that I do not live in her mind, know who she knows and why the fuck is she talking to me? What does she want? Is she afraid to be alone? I am not here to save people from themselves. I am here to wreck their lives.

“Jerry Seinfeld,” she said.

Jerry fucking Seinfeld? I was unaware Jerry needed to come back from anything. I nod, thinking I’d read something about him doing stand-up again.

“I used to like his show,” she says, “but the Comedians Having Coffee thing is not funny.”

Right. Like you are the Universal Declarer of All Things Amusing. I guess I’ll call Jerry and tell him to stop making me laugh. Comedians in Cars is funny.

I said, “Well humor is a matter of taste.”

“Whatever happened to Jim Carrey?”

How the fuck should I know?

          She says, “Now he was funny. Where has he been? I love Jim Carrey.”

I sigh. Although she’s obviously been trying very hard, we’re never going to be friends.

“Who do you like?” she asks.

“Louie CK,” I said, letting that land like an iron turd. “Despite his current problems.”

I want to call Louie and say, “Will you get your ass to a therapist, please? Fix your fucking problem with women. I cannot live without more of your hilarity and I don’t want you to be totally destroyed by your own demons. I don’t want this to be the last we see of you. Your films, writing, stand up. How painful must it have been to fall from being on top. Fix it, mother fucker, and come back.”

The woman doesn’t know who he is. I can tell from the fact she didn’t vomit “MeToo” all over me. Apparently I only like comedians and movie stars who abuse women. Al Franken. Kevin Spacey (okay that was dudes). Bill Burr (okay he has not been accused of harming any women, but you can tell he has got some hate going on). But it’s comedy. Everyone has some hate going on. I keep waiting to find out that Stephen Colbert wears diapers and lives in a closet lined with porn when he’s not on stage. I liked Bill Cosby too, who didn’t? But I draw the line with him. Al and Louie at least admitted their behavior and apologized and I can still watch their videos without feeling like I’m condoning Rape-hypnol.

To anyone who was awake for the last ten years, it’s been obvious that Louie has hated himself for a long time. That counts for something. Now we all know why. He just needs to hate himself more effectively and change his behavior. Mere hidden shame just isn’t enough anymore.

To be clear: I am all for the “MeToo” movement. I think men who abuse women should serve time, including Louie. I think they should have to serve time with the woman sitting next to me in fact.

The woman tells me she wants to come see my act. I stare at her unbelievingly this is my act.

          And it’s the only reason I just don’t tell her to get the fuck out of my face with her inanity and insensitivity. Being a mean, sarcastic liar is working! I have a fan!-who is too stupid to figure out that I hate her. Now I’m pissed at all the grown-ups, mainly women, who taught me to be nice to people as if that has ever worked, especially career-wise. I should have been bitingly aggressive and sarcastic from the get-go. Being compassionate and polite has made me so angry and frustrated and such a failure that I wake up with the taste of bile in my mouth every freaking day.

           So I give her a real location, and a fake time and date for my performance. Maybe it won’t be false by the time she gets there.  She then tells me she’s running a greenhouse. That she used to be a nurse. That life is hard, but she’s a survivor. I still want her to shut up.  This is so ironic. She wants to take my name down so she can spread the word because she’s really good with people.

“I can see that,” I say.  I bet you know what people need without them having to say a word.” I check my internal “love for humanity meter” which is hovering on the line between “use your words” and “AK-47.” I don’t have an AK, for reasons which should be painfully obvious, but I’m capable of standing in the middle of the room throwing furniture as if it were bullets. Let’s hope I can jam my earplugs back into my ears before it comes to that.

I forget exactly how she takes her leave. Maybe I melted her into a pile of oblivion with my baleful stare because I needed to get back to writing a podcast. Or maybe I paid Jim Carey to come beat her to death.  Or maybe I sent her out of the cafe to find me more dedicated fans.  I’m choking on the irony, knowing if she loves Jim Carey, she’s going to hate me.  The name of my act is: All My Passcodes Are Swear Words.

The only thing I do remember is thinking this: given the choice between sitting here and talking to Miss Impervious 5000 and talking to poor, perverted but absolutely hilarious Louis CK, I’d pick Louie every time.  He wouldn’t come on to me inappropriately in a café. He’d see I was wearing earplugs.

And as for “MeToo” equality…I can’t wait for the day a bunch of male comedians out me for sexually harassing them. Then we’ll truly all be on equal footing.


And suddenly I know what to write for the podcast Women Who Sarcast:

Introducing The Sarcast Compendium: New Words for Sarcastic Times.

Word #1: bothershite: a term coined last week in Episode 4, by Women Who Sarcast, is defined as a person who insists on an unwanted and comprehensive social interaction in a public place.

To hear more of the podcast, Women Who Sarcast, and Episode 104’s Sarcast Compendium go to  or go to Women Who Sarcast on Facebook.  It’s a real podcast. With two sarcastic women. Check us out!


Laughing Coyote

Categories: comedians, miscellaneous, psychology humor, Relationships, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

Women Who Sarcast: Getting to Know Us

Women Who Sarcast take a quiz and disclose the history of sarcasm: it’s the fault of the Vikings. The Vikings? Fuck yes, those boat and sword wielding humans…. Pop Art Thumbnail

Categories: Uncategorized | Leave a comment

Introducing: Women Who Sarcast with Kathy Barron and Laughing Coyote

Women Who Sarcast is a new podcast where we use the lowest form of wit to analyze the social issues of our time. (We couldn’t afford the more expensive forms of humor).

Women Who Sarcast


Or use the soundcloud link if it works better for you (Windows and Android)


Categories: humor podcast, Uncategorized, Women Who Sarcast | Tags: , | Leave a comment

10 Vegetables You Should Never Put in Your Vagina (Stand-Up Set)

Categories: Lesbian-Gay Humor, Performances, political humor and satire, Sexual humor, stand up sets, Uncategorized, women's humor | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

Uterus Free!


Now that I’m uterus free I can do anything! (I had a hysterectomy last year for my birthday). It’s like I’m bionic! I had no idea how much my uterus was holding me back!

Among other things I had a wandering uterus problem. Diagnosed by a Greek doctor of course. Hysteria is a condition where your uterus gets bored and wanders to other locations in your body. One time I found my uterus sitting in my ear. It was really embarrassing. Another time it was on my butt, creating a tripartite ass. Another time it was in my eye. Everyone looked like they were ovulating.

One time I was on a date and my uterus took over the entire conversation which consisted mainly of stories about eggs. 465 of them. My entire history of ovulation, egg by egg. My date only made it through twelve of them before he glazed over and fell out of his chair. I was powerless to stop any of it, like compulsively staring at a train wreck.

Afterwards I made a note to myself: under no circumstances let your uterus talk. It has no social skills!

I guess I wouldn’t either if I’d spent my entire life inside the dark recesses of my pelvis.

Having a wandering uterus was ridiculous. I couldn’t plan to do anything because I had no idea where my uterus would show up next. I was afraid that one day I’d be walking down the street and my womb would just drop right out of my vagina, down my pant leg and grab the nearest man by the foot and scream “Fuck me, fuck me I want to have a baby; I want a baby now!”

My uterus and I didn’t get along. All she wanted was kids—something to hold—I reminded her that would just be for nine months at a time, then the fucking thing would be my responsibility for twenty fucking years. I yelled, “So are you going to come out of my body and help me raise this thing?” (Or is like the GOP: hands off and good luck raising that kid by yourself?)

My womb cowered. I think she went and hid in my elbow so I couldn’t find her—I had some mysterious swelling there sometimes that no one could figure out.  One time, I swear, she tried to leave my body during sex. Never saw that dude again. See the thing about the wandering uterus is kind a lie. It can’t just go anywhere—like it doesn’t leave the body, for example…unless you have a hysterectomy.

My uterus and I disagreed about my lesbianism. Imagine having a daily argument with your own fucking pelvis about having a penis on a daily basis. Visualize having a screaming fit with Wooma (I’m the only fucking woman in the universe who actually had to name  her uterus) and she’s yelling, “But pussy is so useless! It doesn’t do anything!”

And me screaming back, “Exactly! I’m a lazy, lazy cunt, I keep telling you that. I mean I fucking abbreviate LOL. I can’t possibly have a child!”

So I finally had to cut Wooma out of my life. Snip snip. Laparoscopic. Easy peasy. So I couldn’t climb ladders for eight weeks or ride a camel. Who the fuck cares about climbing ladders? Oh and no more periods. There’s a sacrifice. They left my ovaries however because I didn’t want to have instant menopause, like some cheap, knock off, ovarian Sanka; no I wanted my menopause to be long, slow and miserable like everyone else’s, an acrid, dark, but deeply aromatic, drip, drip, drip of a slow, teasing hormone blend.

However, not having a pool of blood in your underwear monthly does mean that I can’t tell the difference between PMS, possible menopause, and my usual embittered, psychotic blend of irritability-stained misanthropy.

Ovulation is a mysterious free-for all when you are womb-free.

Unfortunately I forgot something when I had my hysterectomy.

About two months after the surgery I got a text from one of my ovaries, in all caps. She wrote “WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO WITH OUR UTERUS? I’M OVULATING HERE AND THERE’S NOWHERE TO GO!”

So I finally get rid of that pesky uterus and now my ovaries are texting me?  What the fuck? I decided to ignore it. It was probably the last woman I ghosted after she scared the hell out of me on a date. That would be just like her: pretending to be an ovary just to get some attention.

But the next text said this, “Where the hell is our uterus? I’m stranded here. There’s no where to go. Can you imagine what that feels like? I waited fifty years for my chance to leave the room I’ve lived in with all the other unripened eggs—I know everything about everyone—their hopes and dreams, their nasty habits, the rumors about the ova who live in the other ovary being smarter and better looking than my lot of listless, shallow and self-absorbed eggs, who are content to post selfies on Body-Book and worry about their weight.

I’m sick of all the tiresome competitions between the Left Ovary and the Right Ovary in the Successfully Released Egg Contest, and reading all the research and opinions about who deserves to ovulate, and then enduring the monthly ups and downs of the Ovarian Selection Process (which is only slightly less complicated than a Supreme Court confirmation). And always living with a nagging question in the background: Where do we go when we leave this ovarian life? What happens to us? And Then finally I ovulated and nada.

I was shocked. Not just because my reproductive system knows how to e-mail but to find out that their sex education system is possibly worse than ours, especially in Ovary-Right. Apparently the eggs don’t know what happens to most Ova: disappearing into a toilet or tampon somewhere, lost and anonymous with the blood that was once part of the uterine lining—all hopes dashed. But who would agree to ovulate if they knew of that probable future?

Then my phone rang. It was from Eva the Ovum. No way was I answering that. The whole point of removing half your reproductive system is so you don’t have to answer the phone.

On voice mail Eva the Ovum sounded angry. She said, “I want you to imagine what its like to be me. Finally liberated from Ovary-Right, I arrived at the end of the fallopian tube to say, ‘Where the fuck is the uterus? I know there’s a uterus. Right before I ovulated, I was notified about the difference between a fallopian tube and a uterus and this is no uterus. I can’t possibly embed here. I was specifically warned against that kind of behavior. DO NOT EMBED IN THE FALLOPIAN TUBE is in the Ovarian Handbook.  We grew up listening to Ectopic Pregnancy and no one wants to be a member of that band.”

Eva sounded anxious and a bit manic. “I have questions. Will the uterus be back? I don’t remember anything about what to do if the uterus is late. I can’t get hold of Right or Left Ovary. Cell reception sucks in here. I mean I’ve heard about hysteria: so if the womb is wandering, where does it go? Should I meet it somewhere? Does she have a phone? Please call me back.”  The message clicked off. Eva the Ovum had used up all the time on the voice mail.

I had no idea this would happen. It had never occurred to me to ask: so where do the eggs go if there’s no uterus? I mean I couldn’t even answer Eva intelligently. More reason not to call her back.

Someone knocked at the door. I jumped, but it was just the UPS guy.  I set the package on the coffee table carefully. I was a bit afraid to open it. Maybe the hospital had sent my uterus back to me. Maybe my ovaries had called them. And if I opened the package, it would just crawl back up my vagina, fibroids and all, in some kind of primal need for one last fertilization. Which was crazy since I stopped having sex with men since I realized I could have sex with women instead. Or maybe someone had sent me a new uterus—dear god in heaven, what would I have to endure with an imposter uterus? Or had the desperation of Eva the Ovum had such gravity that it pulled another woman’s uterus right out of her! And soon they wouldn’t bother using the mail. I’d open the door and be knee deep in wandering Uteri!!!  Arrghhh!

Fuck me I can’t win.

My phone beeped. Another message. Eva Ovum said, “I’m just going to keep calling until you give me some answers. Nothing has prepared me for the eventuality of the uterus going missing. I’m going to make a temporary fallopian encampment and wait for you to contact me. I have to charge my battery now.”

I got no more texts or calls so I figured she couldn’t find a place to plug it in in the darkness of the pelvis. So wrote it all off as a temporary psychotic episode, took some fish oil pills and got on with my life.

And a month later I got this voice mail message, “Don’t you ever answer your phone? I’m beginning to think you’re dead, even though that’s impossible. How do you keep a relationship going?”

I thought about having my imaginary girlfriend text her back, but that wouldn’t work because she misspells everything.

Eva said, “Nothing’s happening here. No sign of anything like a uterus. I had an incident with Oliva Ovum. She tore through here like an egg on a mission. I thought maybe you were having sex and making everything slippery and turning us upside-down, which ruined my encampment, dumping the tent over that I’d managed to scrape together out of tissues and the bits of some cancer-causing Johnson and Johnson’s baby powder. Unfortunately, my fellow egg slipped out of my grasp in the bedlam, sailing off into the abyss and then fell until I couldn’t see her anymore. I was horrified. Hello? Are you there?

“And I have all these questions: What is the ovum without the womb? What is the purpose of an unemployed and undereducated egg? What skills do I really have? Should I just take a jump into the abyss, maybe travel?  Where would I go?  I hear the face is nice this time of year if you know how to handle it. Oh my god, I think I’ve been self aware way too long. Us Ova are not made for  self-consciousness. But what should I do? I can’t possibly live here the rest of my life. It’s like a train station for round tiny slugs. I’ve studied Feng Shui and these conditions are not good for me. Plus I feel the danger of dying without a purpose. Parts of me already seem to be disappearing when I sit still too long. Anyway, I was promised a uterus and I want to know what happened. Please call me back.”

I didn’t. I wondered how long I could ghost my ovaries before I became a professional asshole.

Then she called again a day later, “I’ve decided the uterus isn’t coming back. I mean I could just leave the body and go look for her, but I don’t know how. There’s no exit sign. I’ve got to go back and tell the others. They should be able to choose about ovulating under these conditions.”

I laughed. Then I thought this could be a lot of trouble. What if I stopped ovulating? Unilaterally? I thought I’d bought myself some time by leaving the ovaries with their hormones intact.

“I have a plan,” said Eva the Ovum. “I see some fibers that no one seems to be using, so I’m going to climb back up the fallopian tubes and then take a running jump over the gap and hang onto the side of the Left Ovary (the Right wouldn’t believe my tale because it sounds too scientific). Then I’m going to threaten to dust them with cancer-causing Johnson’s and Johnson’s baby powder unless they let me back in.”

Finally I had no choice. I had to stop this. I texted, “Fibroids. The womb had fibroids. She was sick and bleeding.”

“Oh so you decide to respond. What took you so long?”

“I lost my phone,” I said. How would she know? What was I going to say? That I didn’t believe ova could text? That would be rude. How was I going to explain all this? Was I going to say, “Look ladies I had them excise the uterus, but I left you alive, never mind that now all of you are doomed for reabsorption in remote and unknown pelvic areas, never before seen by other Ova.” I had used the internet to educate myself about orphaned eggs.

I said, “I didn’t know I had to warn the remaining organs and set up a psychological support system and a trust fund.”

What would happen to me if they found out the truth? What if all my remaining ova got mad at me at once? What about sad and depressed eggs? Would they be more inclined to just throw in the towel and cause cancer? What if the ovaries decided to start wandering around my body weeping and carrying protest signs about the oppression of ova and the murder of Uteri by women? What if they accused me of being a Republican? This threat galvanized me into action.

So I did what any self-respecting Democratic woman would do when texting her ovaries: I became a politician spinning deceit for the good of humanity.  I couldn’t tell them the truth. I needed to give them some hope.

I wrote, “After surgery your Uterus went to vote for Hillary during the last election and never came back. She was last spotted at the Woman’s March wearing pink pussy ears.”

Eva the Ovum wrote back: “Wow. When did the Womb get the vote?”

I wrote, “There’s more than one way to play Voter Fraud. Look the best thing to do is ovulate like normal. We’ve established an Ovarian Underground. What’s her name, the one who fell over the edge?”

“You mean Olivia?”

“Oliva will show you how to leave the body and join the uterus in her political activism. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I didn’t know you could talk, let alone text.”

“Why didn’t you answer me sooner? I don’t believe that bit about the phone. I wasn’t born yesterday you know.”

          No, you weren’t born at all, I thought.

“I’m an introvert,” I wrote. “I’m really shy. And dissociated. I never know what to say when a body part texts me; it makes me self-conscious.”

“Well okay,” she doubtfully.

“You should just stay there and help Olivia. Don’t go back upstream. Always move forward in life. Not backwards.”

“Well okay…”

I texted my good-byes. Then I gave my phone to my psychotherapist who I assumed might enjoy talking to my insides more than I do. Then I moved away and got a new number. I don’t want to explain to my eggs what happens after menopause.

Categories: feminism, Health, Uncategorized, women's humor | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

What Is Not A Wall

In this episode, Comedian Laughing Coyote Punches Holes in Trump’s Wall-World, announces candidacy for President 2020, interviews President Fuckface von Trump-Slug and Kellyann Creepshow, analyses the psychological meanings of the WTF Wall, and finds a metaphor real people can live with.

Performed live at fundraiser for Santa Fe Dreamers Project,  October 2017.

Live Audio and transcript below.


What Is Not a Wall   

Because I keep waking up every day realizing that I, a neurotic introvert, would still make a better a President, I am staging a coup right now. I’m declaring myself President. I have a plan. Who is with me?

President Fuckface von Clownstick has said,“We’re going to build a Wall.”

I refuse the hegemony of this metaphor: I will not live in Wall-World.

As President, my first executive order will be a ban on believing things just because you believe them. This will make believing things without facts to back them up, illegal, or at least extremely difficult. So we may end up deporting Christianity accidentally, but I don’t see that as a problem—No more dinosaurs attending Christ’s crucifixion! How sad.

Thus, this will insure that you can’t just say anything or think anything when facing a problem. Imaginary solutions are extremely effective only with imaginary problems. We fact checked that. We looked for problems that didn’t exist and then counted how many times they got solved. Some fascinating data there.

Executive Order number 2 will ban Blaming the Victim :  We are outlawing the belief that powerless people are so dangerous  that they must be deported, maimed, killed or imprisoned. We are forbidding the belief that most social problems in the United States are created by the people are who have almost no political or economic power. Who the fuck thought that up?

“Hey white rich man! Are you powerful or not? Make up your mind! If you are powerful you don’t need to deport people who aren’t. Is your power that shaky?”

Executive Order #3:  We are outlawing the white race—mainly because it doesn’t exist. If it did there would be such a thing as Caucasian food. I dare you to go into a restaurant and order Caucasian food and see what happens. Like Twinkies and Velveeta the white race is artificially constructed, has no nutrition, and is packaged with sugar to make it seem yummy and palatable. It’s false and bad for your health. It maintains power by splitting people into two groups: those who believe in the racist purity of the Twinkie, and those who eat real, nutritious, multicultural food. Let’s stop with the Hitler Snack Cakes already and admit that everyone likes a good salad with veggies of all colors and origins. Let’s participate in the hegemony of the tossed salad rather than a wall of white wonderbread—if you’ve ever eaten wonderbread you wonder how anyone could think it’s bread. Analogously, how in the world can a wall mean freedom?

My fourth executive order will be to ban all walls around and inside the United states. We’ll call it the Wall-Ban.  (Some idiots will think we are banning Wal-Mart. . . which may not be a bad idea.)

The only wall that will be allowed is the wall we’ll build to house all the other walls we are no longer using.  (Walls to keep deer out of gardens with be grandfathered in).  Walls that will be banned behind the Wall-To-End-all-Walls  are:  a) the border wall, b) the wall around the hearts of Republicans and racists (oh I’m sorry that’s redundant) and c) the wall around Trump’s fucking brain that keeps it from functioning in reality and d) the wall of magical thinking that is dominating our nation at the moment.

Research shows that walls almost never have the intended effect and are indeed, when used with a proscription, are almost uniformly ineffective.

For example:

Woman 1: I’m having trouble paying my health insurance.

Trump: Have you considered using a wall?

Woman 2:    I need an abortion but all the Planned Parenthoodsare gone.

Trump: You should use the vaginal wall. It’s a great wall. It’s made of vaginas.

Man: My kid is struggling in a poor school district and isn’t learning anything.

Trump: Tell him to sit closer to the wall.

Teenage girl: I am going to be deported. I have no family in Mexico anymore.

Trump:  There’s a wall that can help you with that but you need to be on the

other side of it.

Young Man:          I’m driving to work and the breaks on my car are broken-

Trump:  Don’t worry. We built a wall across that stretch of road last month. It’ll                               stop your car for sure.

Please note: You can use this style of argument with Trump supporters in the grocery store or at Thanksgiving to show them how stupid they are.

I then did some investigative reporting. I got an interview with President Fuckface.

“Mr. President I am having very sad feelings about the plight undocumented immigrants and dreamers.”

“Obviously you need a wall. That would fix you right up. You wouldn’t see or feel any of that with a good wall.”

“But I have a wall. I got one right after the election because I knew the price of walls would go up. But I still feel bad.”

“You need a bigger wall, obviously,” said Trump.

“Well I did that too. At the first sign of feeling bad, I added a couple of stories; when I got sick, I added some more. But I’m sicker. It isn’t working. And it’s getting so tall I’m afraid it’s going to fall on me.”

“Well you’ll need a wall for that.”

“I need a wall to protect me from a wall?” I said.

“It happens. Or maybe you need the best wall. ATrump Wall. I’ll have my assistant describe how it works. I would tell you myself but I don’t really understand how it works, plus but I have to go fix some holes in my Wall; some facts about Dreamers have punched their way through.”

So then Kellyann Creepshow way showed up and took me to a castle and moat.  They called it Moat-a-Lago

“We have the best moats,” she said.

“What about bridges?” I said. “I’m more in a bridge kind of mood.”


“We don’t do bridges,” she said. “That’s something a Mexican would do.”

I shuddered and managed not to strangle her.  Inside the building,  I looked around, “Where’s the Trump wall?”

“It’s a special wall; she said. “It’s mostly invisible. You know like thoughts.”

(I suddenly had a thought.  Maybe Trump will just end up pretending he built a wall that deported Dreamers and undocumented souls and he won’t really do it.  And that would mean we could just tell him that he already blew up North Korea.)

Meanwhile Miss Creepway was saying, “You should buy and use a Trump-Grade Wall. This wall is the best because can just project your own reality on it, whatever you want it to be. You can’t see over it, or around it. This wall keeps out anything you think is bad, including other people and facts. You can enable your psychological wall (we call it the psycho wall for short) with the Unidirectional Osmotic Projection System that projects your own unwanted history, feelings, thoughts, emotions and weaknesses, psychological wounds and traumas onto other people so you can hate them instead of yourself.  Everyone else becomes an angry, childish, liar, while you remain pristine and perfect inside.  You are good; they are bad. You are the powerful victim able to be hurt by a butterfly wing and empowered by nukes.”

“Powerful victim?” I said having not heard that before.

“Oh yes, the Trump Wall allows you to be so easily victimized that you become the most powerful Adult  Toddler.”

“But that shows the wall isn’t working right?”

“It’s working perfectly.”

“But wait so Trump thinks he’s the biggest victim and the Most Powerful Man?”

“The wall works its magic,” she said.

“Has anyone died in your presence from cognitive dissonance?”

“Not today,” said Kellyann Creepshow.  “By using the Best Wall you are the only one who exists and the only one who has the right to exist; anyone else infringes your resources. Since you’re President you ARE THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. (See everyone gets to be their own President of the World.) You have the right to destroy everything in the world because it’s you and you’re entitled to do what you want with yourself.  There is no world; it’s all a wall of You reflecting You back to You back to You back to You.  It’s the best thing ever. It insures that you continue to exist. Would you like to join the Republican Party? The Trump Wall comes free if you buy the red hat.”

Suddenly I understood how Trump won the election; this is what he was selling: narcissistic racist psychosis.

All the executive orders I am signing are designed to destroy the elements of the Trumpian Wall-World.

This brings us to Executive Order 5: All borders and thoroughfares in the U.S. will be papered with the U.S. Constitution and the Bill of Rights. The area will operate under the mandate of inclusivity and tolerance.  Let us have interlocking paths of people walking, talking and acting freely, holding hands, helping each other.  Let us live under the hegemony of linked hands and hearts driven by sound, wise minds and the collective use of power. We will grab the hands of the Dreamers and not let them be taken from us; we will hold on to our undocumented citizens in the power of embrace. To take one, they will have to take all of us.

Executive Order 6 What Is Not a Wall:  All citizens and undocumented citizens will find alternative metaphors to guide and ground their thoughts feelings and action. Let us find what is not a wall, and empower these things instead.

I like the image of people punching through any walls and reaching for each other, grabbing on and making an unbreakable grip. I prefer the image of everyone working to take down any Trumpian wall they see, brick by brick. Then we will build houses with these bricks for all of us to abide in.

What is Not a Wall mandates we all ask ourselves what we can do today  to take down a piece of the wall, visible or invisible, through effective actions, like what you are doing tonight and what you’ve already done.

Let’s fight this fight together!


Performed live at fundraiser for Santa Fe Dreamers Project.

Ferocious Feminists Fight for Immigrant Rights Poetry and Open Mic night raised over 600 dollars which was donated to the Santa Fe Dreamers Project. Thank you to everyone who performed and everyone who came and donated!


Categories: coping with Trump, immigration rights, political humor and satire, psychology humor, racism, Trump Presidency, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment



Categories: immigration rights, racism, Trump Presidency | Tags: , | Leave a comment

Why Aren’t NFL Cheerleaders Kneeling During the Anthem? Who says they aren’t?

“Why Aren’t NFL Cheerleaders Protesting During the National Anthem?” reads the headline on an NBC News site.

I laugh because that’s the stupidest question I’ve ever seen. It cancels itself out before it finishes being asked.

Because they are part of the problem!

No society that isn’t fundamentally sexist would even have cheerleaders. They are part of the system.

If it weren’t sexist: there would be whole squads of male cheerleaders. But  where’s the men’s team that cheers me on during childbirth? How about a bunch of men doing hip-grinding, pelvis-oriented dances to get women through their periods? And I sure as fuck could use some male cheerleaders to get me through menopause.  Where is my high- kicking, ass-waggling, pom pom-bearing man squad?

I’ve never meet a feminist cheerleader in my life.

Oh look at those big strong men. Look at me, sexy, barely clothed woman, waggling my boobs and butt and eating lettuce all day so the men can look at me and be glad they have a penis. Football wouldn’t be complete without slapping an objectified woman on top of it to make it sexy on top of simply being brutally competitive.

There are no NFL cheerleaders protesting for their rights because they know they don’t have any. They exist to please and excite the men for money and that’s it. It’s an athletic form of prostitution; a stadium size strip-club.

That is not to say they aren’t intelligent and talented, but they are willing to prostitute themselves to a stupid, narrow-minded, racist, sexist patriarchal system. Being a cheerleader is the same thing as white women voting for Trump.

Now you want to ask the question again? It’s like asking why Trump voters aren’t taking a knee.  My other answer to that is they aren’t taking a knee because they’re too busy bending over.

Cheerleaders are the Condaleeza Rice of feminism: the Kellyanne Conway of women’s rights.  There is no knee, except to kneel before patriarchy and take its hallowed member into one’s mouth.

Any questions?

Yes, I was a cheerleader, so shut up. And when I saw what was really going on, I quit and joined the basketball team. The women’s basketball team. If cheerleaders want society to change, they all need to quit their jobs and do something useful, something that empowers women instead of  entrenching sexism and its incestuous cousin, racism, even further.

Otherwise let’s all just learn to enjoy our Pussy Grabbing Society and cheer it on!


Laughing Coyote

Categories: feminism, patriarchy, racism, Trump Presidency, Uncategorized, women's humor | Tags: , , , , , , | 5 Comments



  So I’m walking to the Dollar Store on a summer evening, which is always a voyage into low self-esteem: Who feels good shopping at the Dollar Store?

Oh look, instead of buying really shitty cat food at Albertson’s for 75 cents a can, I canimages (1) buy 4 cans of completely crappy cat food for 50 cents a can at the Dollar Store, because I’m such a derelict (according to GOP) that I can’t afford the healthier cat food at $1.50 a can, or the outrageously healthy cat food at Whole Foods for $7.25 a can, which would keep the cats alive longer than my lifespan. Then my poor cats would be put down cruelly by strangers who aren’t willing to suck it up and go into the Dollar Store to keep these extra dead-lady-cats-from-next-door alive, because the strangers also can’t afford Whole Paycheck Organic Cat Delight, or the Almost Food for Felines at Albertson’s and Smith’s.

travel-mat-3mm-68in-250px-273pxAnd now for the real question that’s been on my mind for a while: Can you buy yoga mats at the Dollar Store? And if you do will it irreversibly cheapen Downward Dog?  Will I be pilloried at the YMCA for shopping at Cheap Ass Goods warehouse, Santa Fe, New Mexico, or championed for my thriftiness? It’s all going to depend on the quality of the mat. I’m filled with hope: my possible positive self-esteem is hanging in the balance.

I decided to walk to the Dollar Store today. You don’t drive to the Dollar Store. You go there when you have no car and live nearby. If you have a car, you at least park at Trader Joe’s, then walk over to the Dollar Store-the poor person’s Starbucks. Our local Dollar Store is so progressive it opened another Dollar Store in the parking lot with great deals: locals call it The Fifty Cent. They love it because poor white Trump supporters just won’t go in there.

The Dollar Store. It’s a misnomer because it literally means: buy your dollars here. Right. This is the place to buy money. Who’d be dumb enough to purchase money? Um, I’d like to buy a dollar for a dollar. It’s money laundering for poor people.

Or maybe it’s a conspiratorial metaphor, a little known partnership between The Poor Store and Whole Foods. If you shop at Poverty R’ Us, you will save so much money that now you can buy goods at the GOP One-Percenter Market. (The O in GOP stands for “organic,” so I’ve been told. As in Good Organic Person. Right.)

Hang on, I shouldn’t be so cynical: what if it means I can pay one dollar to buy ten dollars; two dollars to buy twenty dollars, and so forth.  It’s some special Dollar Store conversion table! Wow I am smart to shop here! The shabby appearance of the place belies the miracle of expenditure that is taking place every day here, maybe so the GOP doesn’t find out. Something for us the 99 Percenters! Awesome!

Perhaps it also explains why someone burgled the place last night, breaking one huge plate glass window and the glass door, both covered now by particle board.

So here I am approaching the threshold of the Dollar Store on a warm summer evening, trying to beat down any self-esteem I might have built up during the day by doing yoga and not yelling at stupid people, when a car with completely tinted windows drives up, and slows down, timing its entry into the parking spot to coincide with my trajectory.abcb3940a9a8001d72976bc805836dab--audi-r-black-all-black Ordinarily I would assume thoughtfulness on the part of the driver, but because all the windows are opaque, and the windshield is heavily tinted, it’s making me nervous. I can’t see who is in the car at all. Is the person going slowly because they’re a Christian? A Grandma?  A Braille Driver? Or am I being followed? Stalked?  Menaced?

I personally think windows shouldn’t come with the equivalent of mirrored sunglasses. I deserve to stare into the face of the people who are trying to kill me. However, really dark tint is legal in New Mexico. Given the intensity of the sun I can understand why—it’s the only time in my life I’ve hated my sun roof—but I think tinted windows are the concealed carry of vehicles and shouldn’t be allowed.

Even so, as it pulled up I tell myself I’m being stupid, but my breath is catching a little and I have to force myself to keep walking down the side walk in front of the car and not cower like a man afraid of abortion rights against the Dollar Store wall. And now I come to see something completely startling: a grey Hello Kitty vanity plate on the front bumper. The black sporty car has black windows, black tire rims, black trim and a grey Hello Kitty license plate.


I burst out laughing. Who puts Hello Kitty on the front of their Macho-Mobile? The driver is either completely pussy whipped, so to speak, or using the cleverest disguise ever because now I’m cracking up so hard I can’t run lest I pee my pants. What kind of stalker/hit man/Russian spy would use Hello Kitty plates? I stand here for a bit, gasping and half-expecting a young Latina woman with heels and pink sun glasses to emerge and blow all my referential frameworks to bits.

But Hello Kitty just sits there, breathing, behind its car-sunglasses and I give up and go inside; obviously driver is male and now too ashamed to get out of the car. The Dollar Store: land of self-esteem. Or maybe he is here to buy some money, or maybe rob the place again, but is now having second thoughts because I’m memorizing his license plate and he knows it.

The cashier inside will not admit to selling money. I figure it’s because all the money had all been stolen last Thursday by the cat-burglar, also a misnomer when you think about it. Who would ever be stupid enough to break into someone’s house to steal a cat? Now planting a cat might make some sense, but not abducting a cat to ransom later.  Running a CAT-NAPPING ring usually means you will be shopping at the Bankruptcy Store for the remainder of your life while feeling really sleepy.

After ascertaining the cashier would not admit to selling yoga mats (and as far as I could tell the inventory agreed with him), I left the store. The Hello Kitty Death Squad Car was still outside. But the car didn’t follow me down the road. We both knew his cover had been blown. Or maybe he couldn’t actually see through the window either and that’s why he’d been going so slowly and was perhaps marooned at the Dollar Store. Maybe he actually needed my help. I could go back and google: Blindfolds for Cars and tell him what a possible remedy would be.

But that would have to wait. Right now I had great plans for my Halloween Costume: Hello Kitty Assassin! I’m going right down the street to the Dollar Tree to pick up some money to buy it!

Faithfully yours,

The Laughing Hello Dollar Kitty


Categories: Animal Humor, cat humor, money, shopping, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , | Leave a comment

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