Health

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.

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

6 Months with Lady Viagra: Wow that extra .5 orgasms per month was really something! (Audio blog)

As performed on May 20, 2017 at FURIOUS FEMINISTS FIGHT FASCISM OPEN-MIC FUNDRAISER NIGHT AT ICONIK COFFEE ROASTERS IN SANTA FE. THANKS EVERYONE for raising money to prevent families from becoming homeless!  (Audio)

 

 

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

Pre-Existing Conditions Can’t Really Exist Under the American Health Care Act

The Paradoxical Nature of Pre-Existing Conditions: A Monograph by Dr. Laughing Coyote of WTF University

 

Evidently there are now many pre-existing conditions NOT COVERED under the new We-Could-Give-a-Flying-Fuck-Care bill that the House Republi-cretins voted in without even reading it or checking their collective pulses for a conscience.

Being worried about health care coverage these days, (No you had those eyes before you tried to sign up for glasses!) I decided to write to Paul Ryan to ask about what constitutes a “pre-existing condition” according to the AHCA, otherwise known as the Assholes Hurt Consumers Act.

According to Paul Ryan the following are designated as “pre-existing conditions,” which will not be covered under the various sub-categories of the Abolish Health Care Act (AHCA).

-Being unable to remember your fucking passwords

-Sarcasm

-Having a Russian boyfriend

-Giving a shit about other people

-Math skills

(Math skills are considered to be  untreatable pre-existing conditions, so no self-respecting insurance company would deign to insure it.)

Being on Facebook is also a pre-existing condition, as is:

Voting for Hillary

Intelligence

Knowing facts

Having your pussy grabbed    (Insurers think this isn’t really a disorder, but just in                                                         case. One arrogant asshole claimed that if he had a                                                         pussy he would want it grabbed night and day.)

Other conditions that will not be covered because they are pre-existing conditions:

Watching Rachel Maddow

Drinking water daily

Feminism

Believing Trump

(It’s not the insurers fault that you believed a malignantly narcissistic con man).

 

The AHCA (Apocalyptically Harmful Creeps’ Act)  also does not cover the following pre-existing conditions:

A heartbeat

Global warming

Morality

Pining for Obama

Wishing Trump had the balls to go to his own correspondence dinner

Financial ruin

(One insurance representative commented: Our money won’t cover your lack of money. What do you think money is for? It’s to make sure our money has money!)

 

Other pre-existing conditions for which there is now no insurance:

The Comcast-Verizon Internet

President Putin

Trump-induced Tourette’s

Dying prematurely because of the AHCA (Arrogantly Harmful Cunts’ Act)

In a phone call (because I threw my computer against the wall in a fit of outrage—also not covered under the American Heinous Assholes’ Act), Ryan explained that insurance can’t cover the pre-existing condition called “having no insurance,” or any sequelae. I told him I was going to shove my fist up his sequelae.

Subsequently I was then told that “not having an iPhone anymore because I threw it over 1500 miles at Ryan’s self-satisfied fuckhead” is also a pre-existing condition that no one will pay for. I had to borrow my grandmother’s flip phone so he could tell me that.

Then I asked “What if one of my pre-existing conditions has a pre-existing condition? Wouldn’t they then cancel each other out and then you’d have to cover it?”

This comment was ignored. I suspect the Republican “Nerd” (so called because what exactly is ‘smart’ among Tea Party GOP?) didn’t understand me.

I said, “For example, being a Republican is obviously a pre-existing condition and being a Tea Party Republican is manifestly one also-”

“I don’t follow,” said Ryan.

“You didn’t really pay attention during Nerd Lessons, did you?”

“I don’t follow.”

“Obviously you have a few pre-existing conditions that Democrats are fully paying for. Listen closely. Being a Tea Party member is a pre-existing condition inside the already pre-existing condition of being a Republican. These two things that are proven chronic mental conditions are so awful that they negate civilization creating a manifest emptiness which by definition does not exist (thus it cannot ‘pre-exist’) and therefore must be covered by your own Arrogantly Harmful Cretins Act.”

“Oh, yes, we congressmen do have very good insurance,” said the right wing, brown-nosing pseudo genius,  and Speaker of the House.

Refusing to discuss it further, Ryan went on to say that in most states the Aggressively Hurtful Conditions Act does not cover being alive at the time of coverage. “We view being alive as a condition that the state can take no responsibility for, and thus any condition that actually involves respiration, whether natural or enhanced, cannot and should not be covered, because it is the individual’s responsibility for being alive in the first place that is the underlying cause of most illnesses and it is not fair to ask money to pay for that endemic situation.”

I said, “So in order to get coverage, we would have to sign up for the Aggressively Harmful Consumer Act before we are actually alive because actually having enough fingers to fill out the form would be a pre-existing condition?”

“Precisely,” said Ryan.

“So in order to get around this No Pre-existing Conditions Act I have to sign up before I exist?”

“Correct.”

I said, “How many people do you think can cope with that kind of planning?”

“About 3.”

Apparently in this Asinine Health Can’t Act there are also levels of “pre-existing conditions”, to wit: some conditions exist more than others, and are therefore unqualified for a higher level of coverage; in other word the more something exists, the less likely it is to be covered; and the less a condition exists, the more likely it is to be fully covered by the WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!!? Health Care Act.

The only conditions the AHCA covers are conditions that don’t exist. It should be called the Apocryphal Humanity Coverage Act.

Thus, under this sub-clause:

  • All interactions with unicorns are fully covered.
  • Accidents involving people with wings are covered.
  • Diseases stemming from telepathy are widely insured.
  • Chronic illnesses stemming from chronic prescience are actually pre-covered: you get money from the government before you come down with viral omniscience.

Donald Trump’s brain is, obviously, also fully insured.

Faced with this, I thought about shooting myself, but wasn’t sure if I existed enough to be successful. And then I received a call from a philosopher who had a whole different take on the semantics of the issue.

“This shouldn’t stand up in court,” said Philosophical Phil (his friends call him           Philoso-Phil).  “To pre-exist means you don’t exist, so that means pre-existing conditions can’t exist and they can’t keep you from having insurance.”

“So that means they have to insure me even if I breathe on a regular basis, watch Rachel Maddow, vote Democratic and understand facts?”

“Looks that way.”

“I believe they may have fucked themselves, I said.

“Also not a pre-existing condition,” said Philoso-Phil.

 

So, armed with this knowledge, insurance fans, let’s all write to our insurance companies and legislative branches and lawyers pointing out that there is a logical inconsistency in their plan to kill us all and take our money.

I’m so relieved that having a new iPhone 6 isn’t a pre-existing condition, but I am now insanely worried about the unicorns.

Insurancely yours,

The Laughing Coyote

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Categories: Health, Health Insurance, political humor and satire | Tags: , | Leave a comment

Introducing the Anti-Depressant Cat Calendar! Just in time for inauguration.

 

Who needs Lexapro when you have Button The Cat?

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Button, formerly a very successful plus size cat model for FAT CAT Magazine, has agreed to come out of early retirement in order to make the end of the world more palatable!

No one needs to feel bad during Trumpageddon! A good apocalypse should be enjoyed!

And who needs all that Paxil, Prozac, Wellbutrin, and the new one just out last month, Soma, when all you really need is a chubby white cat with an eating disorder to get you through each day of the month on a calendar!

Button the Cat’s  Suicide Prevention Calendar, YEAR 1  A.T.*  (*After Trump)


January 

Whatever he’s on, I want some!

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FEBRUARY   

Fall and Winter 2015-1-2016 075Fall and Winter 2015-1-2016 072Fall and Winter 2015-1-2016 073

A little kitty porn pole dancing to get you through. . .


MARCH

Maybe eating all five birds was a bad idea. . .

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APRIL

I’m not just another pretty face

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MAY

Therapy Cat works great!

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JUNE   

I’m in here with the dishes making decisions for our country

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JULY

I AM YOUR VALIUM!

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August

Everything is better with a friend

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 (That is Button’s best friend, Onyx.)


SEPTEMBER

Let me in the house and I will save you

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OCTOBER

Available without prescription

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NOVEMBER

 

Yes I am organic and I do cat yoga

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DECEMBER

More effective than OxyContin. Happy Holidays!

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Bonus pictures in case you haven’t ordered your 2018 Anti-depressant Cat Calendar and need some more to tide you over!

JANUARY 2018

I am one with the blanket, I am one with the blanket. Relax….midterms are only eleven months away now

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FEBRUARY

IT’S THE LOVE CATS!

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Categories: Animal Humor, cat humor, Health, mental health, Trump Presidency | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Obamacare Now Covers Lobotomy: Day 50 of Surviving Trumpageddon

I just finished ordering an online lobotomy so I can get through the next 4 years. I know I will not need my brain anytime soon. The lobotomy comes with DIY instructions that even an already brainless idiot can follow.

My other option is selling my brain on eBay. Then I can finance a trip to Washington, D.C. to interview for a job in the Trump Ass-ministration as the head of Intelligence. I figure my reptilian brain is pretty much all I’ll need for that so I will make sure not to sell my brainstem or medulla.

I will also be renting out my heart for the next 4 years. Who needs one of those in this climate? I have posted my heart on RentAnOrgan.gov so if you, or someone you know, need a heart (like a Trump supporter) you can bid on it and give it to them for New Year’s as revenge.  Expect to compete in a bidding war because President-Elect Dump and his boyfriend Putin are racing to collect all human hearts and burn them in this new FuckOverFest cold war that is now our collective reality. The stupid people have finally won!! Now everything will be great! Because Ignorance always makes Everything Better!

Being the oracular business woman that I am, I also bought ownership of the Wizard of Oz song If I Only Had a Brain, sung by The Scarecrow.  I am going to make so much freakin’ money owning next year’s theme song!

 Welcome to 2017: how stupid can a country be and still exist? Stay tuned for the answer which will probably come late next year.  Already little girls are asking: Can an apocalypse have an apocalypse?

 

I think my lobotomy is going to need a lobotomy.

It’s 1404 days until the next election: how are you surviving?

The Laughing Coyote

Categories: fake news, Health, Health Insurance, mental health, Obamacare, political humor and satire, Trump Presidency | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

Ovarian Emails

Ovarian Emails

I got an irate email from my ovaries the other day that said, “Where the hell is our uterus? We are getting reports from stranded ova that after they ovulate there’s  nowhere to go. Can you imagine what that feels like? You wait fifty years for your chance to leave the room you’ve lived in with all the other unripened eggs—you 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 your lot of listless, shallow and self-absorbed eggs, who are content to post selfies on Body-Book and worry about their weight. And imagine that you’ve experienced all the tiresome competitions between the Left Ovary and the Right Ovary in the Successfully Released Egg Contest, and read all the research and opinions about who deserves to ovulate, and then endured the monthly ups and downs of the Ovarian Selection Process (which is only slightly less complicated than a Supreme Court confirmation). Yet you are 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 you ovulate 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? Finishing the email, I realized that my Ova were also not prepared for the other thing that can happen: turning into a human being. Perhaps the ovaries weren’t equipped to handle large scale panic.

My phone beeped, interrupting me. I had a message. It was from Eva the Ovum. She wrote, “We’ve been trying to call you, since typing is hard without fingers and the voice-to-type thing sucks, but you never answer the phone. Some of us think you are a Millennial, but I disagree—I suspect you are simply a curmudgeon who hates talking, but I thought you might respond to a text.

“I want you to imagine what it’s like to be me. Finally liberated from Ovary-Right, I arrived at the end of the fallopian tube only 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. But here I am and it’s basically a door without a house and even the door is missing. I felt disenfranchised. ‘Is this all there is?’ I asked the silent tissues.

“Nothing in Ovary-Right had prepared me for the possibility of the uterus going missing. I dug into the end of the fallopian tube and tried to remember more about the briefing I’d had before ovulation. Does the uterus leave the pelvic floor and come back? Had there been any instruction on what to do if the uterus is late? Should I wait here? Does the uterus have a phone number or an App? If it travels, where does it go? Around the body like some kind of weird inter-organ Uber? Wait a second, didn’t I hear about that somewhere. . . in history. . . the wandering uterus?. . . that causes-yes that’s it- Hysteria, when the uterus wanders around the female body creating problems for the GOP.

“What were those symptoms? Moodiness, hysterical regulation of pregnancy, delusions about birth control and abortion, and a special kind of neurasthenic paralysis of the hands that keeps the Senate from voting on Supreme Court Justices? Yes, that had to be it

“I decided to make an temporary fallopian encampment hoping the uterus would take a break from abusing mankind and come back to pick me up.

“And….nothing happened. A month passed. And here came another Ovum, Olivia, and I reached out to grab her because unlike my slow careful meander through the fallopian tube, she was tearing through it like an egg on a mission. I thought maybe the woman we live in-you-was 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 falling and falling until I couldn’t see her anymore. I was horrified.

“Then the questions started up: What is the ovum without the womb? What is a uterus without the possibility of a baby? What is the purpose of an unemployed and undereducated egg? What skills did I really have? Shortly thereafter, I decided I had been alone and self-aware way too long—us ova are not generally good at solipsism or solitude. Obviously some action needed to be taken. ‘But what should I do’ I asked myself. ‘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.’

“I decided it was no use waiting around for the wandering uterus to come back. In fact if I was a uterus and could move around the body why would I come back to the pelvis where I’d been trapped my whole life? Why not hang out in the left triceps? Or the knee? I hear the face is great this time of year if you know how to handle it.

“Then I remembered some gossip that some Uteri (which is the plural of Uterus) feel that being a receptacle for human life is not always what it’s cracked up to be, which is maybe why the Ovarian Committee told us nothing about it until right before Ovulation. Evidently some Uteri resent being seen as only useful for pregnancy. We’d dismissed this as propaganda because it leaked from Ovary-Left and involved science, which for us on Ovary-Right was just a misspelling of Scientology.

“Subsequently I recalled more talk about our uterus being involved in a Fibroid Ring that she couldn’t get out of that was making her pay in blood and pain.  Maybe she had every reason to get out. Shit, what if our uterus had left the building entirely in order to escape from a Mafiosa of Fibroids? Maybe our Uterus wasn’t in Our Woman’s body at all anymore, but had applied for a passport to places unknown. Perhaps she’d had plastic surgery of some kind and was hiding in plain sight. In fact she could be anywhere or anything, like a fancy scarf, or a small purse, possibly even a man’s face in the form of a mask. Wow that would be really something. I wondered if I should slip out of the body and go look for her, but I had no idea which way to go. There were no signs saying: This Way Out.

“I had to get back and tell the others. I owed them that.

“I found some fibers that no one seemed to be using and, like the Salmon, that I’d read about on the Ovarian Internet, climbed my way back up to the fallopian door, took a running jump at the canyon of gap between the fallopian tube and Ovary-Right and then clung to the outside and threatened to turn into Ovarian Cancer if they didn’t let me back into the Ovary tout de suite.

          “But we’ve never had an Ovum come back,” said the GateKeeper. “Our revolving door only revolves one way.”

Ignoring that Sarah Palinist logic, I said, “I have the Johnson and Johnson’s talcum powder pointed at your head. Get out of the way and I will solve the enigma of the revolving door as well as the mystery of the missing uterus!”

“And so I told my story to the Ovarian Committee, and then, after learning how to write, which took another month, we composed an initial email and then I decided to text you this testimonial. Please tell us what is happening with our uterus.”

And that is how I found out that you should always notify the Ovaries of a major shift in Uterine Policy so they can prepare to fall to the floor of the empty pelvis and be absorbed into whatever tissue happens to be there—a death perhaps better than being carried out of the body on a sludgy river of blood and letting the ovaries know that the hidden dream of becoming your own body through the miracle of gestation and birth is now over.

Did I really want to tell them I chose to have a partial hysterectomy to remove a uterus infested with many different kinds of fibroids, most inoperable, causing pain and digestive problems that would only get worse with menopause still years away? I didn’t know I had to warn the remaining organs and set up a psychological support system. Furthermore, it had never occurred to me that I could email my reproductive system. Think of the conversations I could have had if I’d only known! On second thought, maybe not.

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.” Would that spin of me saving them so they could be Pelvic Pioneers be a sufficient consolation prize? What would happen to me 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? Worse, what if they accused me of being a Republican, who could do ridiculous things, like vote for the GOP from 2001 onwards and decide that putting a Pussy Grabbing Male Presidential Candidate into office was somehow better than choosing the “evil” e-mailing Hillary.

As usual, the threat of even looking remotely Republican galvanized me into action and I began to think hard. Where would a uterus go once she leaves the body if she could? Mine would go fucking vote for Hillary.

So I did what any self-respecting democratic woman would do when texting her ovaries: I became a politician.

I texted back a headline to Eva the Ovum. It said, “Hysterical Wandering Uterus Votes for Clinton.”

Eva the Egg texted back, “Our uterus is out voting for president?”

I wrote, “Yes. In fact I think my sex organs have been plotting this for a long time: the fibroids being an excuse for voter autonomy. It is the Year of the Hysterectomy: GET OUT THE FUCKING VOTE. Female sex organs are so excited to vote for Hillary who is a Woman’s Woman, not like that shit-for-brains Sarah Palin, who finds plastic Ziploc bags confusing, and totally different than that morally bankrupt, talking penis-puppet Condoleezza Rice—who has all the morality of a cockroach despite her IQ being four times that of G.W. Bush. Women are out voting for Hillary Clinton with all their reproductive organs—vaginas, wombs, ovaries and brains, and no one can stop it!”

I added, “Last night Trump held a press conference and whined and screamed and said, ‘We need to crack down on Illegal Wandering Uteruses Committing Voter Fraud. We must keep female reproductive organs from rigging this election and getting away with it.’ But no one’s listening to him anymore and he can’t stop it. Apparently it’s too much pussy for even him to grab.”

Eva the Ovum wrote back: “Wow.”

I wrote, “Your sacrifice, Eva, just might save our Democracy.”

A day later I got a text from Eva the Ovum. “I was so inspired by how our Wandering Uterus is trying to save the world that I’ve convinced all of us in Ovary Left and Right to ovulate all at once behind Hillary Clinton. After all, we are Stronger Together! Come on Girls! Let’s go fill out all those ovals!”

I sat back with a sense of a job well done. No more periods and a female president! What a great time to be alive!

Sincerely,

The Laughing Coyote

Categories: Health, political humor and satire, Sexual humor, women's health | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

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