Posts Tagged With: feminism

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!


The Laughing Coyote

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

Why Buying Furniture is Not the Same as Going on a Date


















I am trying to sell some barely used furniture and apparently I need to quit my full time job in order to have time for answering all the questions that potential customers have, and then have an interval to recuperate from drinking heavily after trying to recover from all that glorious humanity.

I just love it when I spend an hour talking to someone about the finer points of a metal shelf that’s worth about $40 (and I’ll probably get somewhere between $35 and $25 for it), followed by the working out the logistics of my location, now that craigslist now has a DIY map with a shit interface and is always wrong.

I would like to point out to Craigslist that I can’t drag and drop something that is OFF THE MAP! Are they too fucking lazy to find the location themselves? I thought that’s why we have Map Quest to begin with—not so I can guess where I live and spend half an hour trying to drag and drop the pointer, like a drone, on top of unsuspecting addresses who have nothing to do with me or the crime of trying to sell some goddamn furniture without losing my fucking mind—I have Map Quest figure it out SO I DON’T HAVE TO!

Sending someone a map with a circle on it through snail mail would be easier than the dipshit system they have now. Who decided that was a good idea? Don’t these geniuses realize that by now people can’t figure out their own addresses precisely because they’ve been using Google maps for ten years? That’s like asking someone to memorize a phone number or to calculate what 20% off means in real dollars. Thanks Craigslist for rendering Google maps as useful as Esperanto.

And in the middle of this I’m getting wonderful text messages that don’t identify themselves and say things like, “Are you available right now?” which makes me wonder what business I am really in, and could I possible get someone I’m actually dating to text me that message and maybe add an interesting picture that later I can post on Facebook when I want to shame her for mistreating me later in the relationship.

“Am I available now?”

If I text ‘yes’ what will happen? And if money changes hands will I get arrested?

Then there are all the questions about the irredeemably obvious:
How tall is it?
See what I said on Craigslist
How wide is it?
See what I said on Craigslist
How long is it?
See above answer.
What color is it?
See picture on Craigslist.
What does it look like?

[Careful pause.] See above response.

How many shelves does the four-shelf shelf for sale have?

I think maybe my answer to that was obscene. . . interestingly because the buyer was a guy, he showed up and bought it anyway. A woman would have posted outraged and self-righteous hate mail on Facebook and I would have been barred from not only selling furniture, but from the human race, and had my ovaries removed to make sure I didn’t have any children who could observe human behavior and comment with some accuracy about some basic differences between the genders.

Men: Do you still have the item?
Women: Oh that piece is so beautiful. It might fit in my living room.
Men: Can you send me more pics so I can get a better look?
Women: What kind of brown is that brown? Do you know who painted it?
Men: Okay, when can I come and get it?
Women: Let me consult my family and friends to see if I really need such a beautiful shelf after all, although I really like it and it’s unique and it would probably go perfectly in my ___________.
Men: [ACTION. Came and got it and paid full price!]

Because we aren’t talking about a car here. That’s a whole different animal with a lot of working parts that deserves a lot of inquiry. But even with vehicles the conversation is easier.

Me: Nope, not going below 5000.00 for the Honda. I know it’s worth that. Nope sorry. Can’t go lower and look myself in the mirror tomorrow.
Men: Okay. Here you go. [He knows about self-respect.]
Me: Thanks for the five thousand.
Men: You betcha’ [and he drives off in it.]


Meanwhile Back in Furniture Hell:


Women: I’m not sure that shelf will hold my TV.

Me: It held my mother’s giant, HD TV that was bigger than life itself, that took three people and a crane to move.

Woman: I don’t know. I like it right now. But I might not like it later.


I felt a little bit like the Israelis in Palestine and I wondered if I could just hire a drone to drop the fucking shelf on her, but realized I might kill innocent civilians because I’m using the non-map on Craigslist.










The Feminist Protest

And now because of that statement, I’ll probably get ripped a new one from my female audience because I have failed to love all women at all times everywhere, even though many other people would classify me as a rabid feminist. I just can’t win. I prefer to call myself a ‘rapid feminist,’ and I’m going to leave the meaning of that your imagination and to the comment box (which is conveniently hidden under the “Tags” at the bottom of each blog post. No, I did not put it there. Word Press did. You need Google maps and a flashlight to find it. Brilliant.)

Women tend to interview me about the piece of furniture, as if what they have in their house really fucking matters.

Yes This Really Happened: The Shelf


The following is an excerpt from several days of negotiation about a 4-shelf shelf that was listed on Craigslist with a picture and a very precise description.
Her: Where is it from? Who is the manufacturer?

Me: I don’t know. My brother put the thing together for my mother 7 years ago and it’s been moved 4 times since then. Did I mention it is a metal shelf?

Her: What kind of metal is it? Is it shiny?

Me: Yes, it’s shiny. It’s some kind of composite and appears to be rust proof.

Her: How tall is it?

Me: Well that is posted on the ad. But I’m 5’3” and it’s as tall as I am.

Her: Well I have other shelves too.

Her: Oh I think this shelf would definitely get along with other shelves. It’s shiny and goes with everything.

Her: What kind of condition is it in?

Me: Oh, well, there’s no indication of any psychological problems. Not based on its behavior so far.

Her: What?

Me: [I paused. Shit, I’d gotten sucked in to the whole thing). Perfect. Except for a tiny wobble, but the leg is adjustable. In fact the whole thing is adjustable.

Her: What adjustments do you think I’d need to make?

Me: I don’t know. It would depend on your needs in the moment. (At this point I am not sure if I’m a psychologist or a furniture salesman or a guru. At this point I am also refraining from suggesting a different sort of adjustment which is probably not recommended by the manufacturer.)

Her: I know I like the piece now. . . but do you think it’s the kind of shelf that I’m going to like ten years from now?

Me: [Inside voice: how do you know you are even going to be alive 10 years from now?] Outside voice: Oh, Absolutely. It comes with a 10 year guarantee. I just found the paperwork here in a drawer of another shit piece of furniture I’m trying to get rid of. Either buy it or don’t but can we please get off the fucking phone? I haven’t eaten in three days now and I’m getting woozy.

I actually stopped with “absolutely.” Maybe it isn’t her fault she’s an idiot.

Her: What else can you tell me about the shelf?

What else can I tell you about the shelf? IT’S A SHELF!!!!!

The Analysis

This is apparently is the furniture warehouse equivalent of the query, often used in job interviews and dates: Tell Me About Yourself. (For how these two things are actually not dissimilar see the future, when I write about it.)

I had to stop myself from falling into an insecure doubt, installed by social media, that perhaps I had missed something, and now all material objects come with some kind of autobiography that I should have known by heart by now, or at least be able to read off The Shelf’s twitter feed. Is this what Shelf Life really means?

I took a drink. From a flask marked: I hate selling things to people.

I should only sell things to pets. I’d be a great dog salesman. Want this bit of food that’s been in my car for a week?

Pant pant. Sure.


Armed with this bright view of the future, I threw my flask into the yard, and began to practice deep breathing and then began some dialog I know many men have used in their lives: I’m not sure what to say, honey.

I omitted the word honey. Even though we’d been in negotiations for three days, I still didn’t feel that level of intimacy was appropriate, especially since I’m gay. I didn’t want to deal with what she’d say to her husband, and this woman definitely has a husband, otherwise she wouldn’t know how to torture me with questions I don’t know how to answer and make me feel guilty at the same time.

If I’d said that word, she would have said to her husband later: I would have bought that shelf darling, if she hadn’t sexually harassed me. She called me honey. (I can feel the husband’s empathy for me from here).

I would have answered these accusations with the mature and well thought out argument: Well she started it! She emailed me, three times and called me twice before I even knew that someone was interested in my shelf. That’s a lot of pressure. If we’d been dating I’d have folded like a deck of cards under the subtext: I want you I want you I want you. So naturally I called back, and tried to answer all her questions. She made me believe.

The Temptress


So then we had the unending discussion of when she would come meet the shelf, make friends, pay me and take it home with her. She changed the times twice. What dedication! With all that attention to detail and biography, I knew she’d come and pick it up. Sold! Whenever I pay that much attention to anything, you can be sure I’m going to marry whatever it is even if it’s bad for me.

So she calls me the next day and says she’s not coming because she’s found someone else. I mean something else, something about someone having some shelves that went along with some other shelves better, and she knew their history and angle of juxtaposition of her pantry to her personality–

What kind of shelf that would be, I am scared to think about…one that probably can’t decide what is best for it and can’t even get out of its box because of all the existential issues involved?

She hoped I hadn’t been inconvenienced.

Jesus Christ in a sidecar.

Irritated I stopped wasting words on her and said, “Fine,” and I hung up before she abused me with any more specious reasoning, obsessions about details, and false promises, leading me to my new rule about dealing with people: asking a lot of questions doesn’t mean shit.

Just buy the goddamn shelf or shut up about it.

There should really be no talking in furniture transaction situations. Grunting and pointing is really all that is needed. Or perhaps some strict rules: Each person is allowed three questions max….It’s a shelf. How many questions can you possible ask about a SHELF?

The Problem with Words

I think most people do not know how to use words, or what they are for and that language is meant to make things better between people and to glean information, not to just be used whenever you fucking feel like it, like the iPhone, internet and Netflix, or asking me a million questions that you should already know the answers to just because you have me on the phone.

Just because some words are there, doesn’t mean you should use them.

This would prevent us from having to pay for the consequences of misusing speech: like not asking questions when we shouldn’t, and not asking enough questions when we should.

How Buying Furniture Is Not Like Dating or Getting Married

Most people spend more time asking about a bit of furniture than they do when deciding to get married. In fact, if people asked as much about fellow humans as they do about things they are about to purchase, they would not even go on dates.

So perhaps the not-asking and not-knowing anything useful about your partner is an evolutionary device, much needed in order to get along with anyone who is also human. Ignorance and delusion promote the survival of the species, (but can’t comment on its quality.) Perhaps if we had to buy our lovers our relationships would be more successful.

Yes honey, I only have three shelves and I’m never going to have four, so either get over it and make a purchase or move on.

Why Buying Each Other Might Be a Good Idea

Buying humans however has a sad history.

Bear in mind I’m trying to insult everyone today. If you feel left out from not having been insulted yet, just hang on.

But let’s not make assumptions: let’s think this through.

Having to buy a human had a certain amount of wisdom (consult human history and stop getting angry at me in the spirit of political ineptness –I mean correctness– that no one takes seriously. Being PC would have worked by now if it was going to, just like the Just Say No movement.)

If we bought our girlfriends and wives we could ask things like:

What are her teeth like? Hips? Will having a kid kill her? How deep? How wide? What color? What does she look like? Will her looks last? Is that a real four- shelf shelf? Would you look at that! Sold!

And for the men (I want to equalize the oppression and objectification here. Every man likes it, even though he says he doesn’t.)

Women can ask: How much will he hold? Is he sturdy? Has he been successful at being a dresser or is there room for improvement? Does he know who he is? Does he take initiative and provide services for which you haven’t thought of yet? Does he fix things (like décor) without being asked? Is he reliable or will he collapse in the next quake, thunderstorm, shopping spree or long drawn out conversation about the relationship? Can he handle the big items he will be asked to be responsible for? Will he protect what we value? Is he versatile? What will he do when the cat jumps on him?

I really think that people would do better to use these questions on dates instead of in my garage in front of my used furniture as if I really care about the crap I am selling. You are not dating or marrying your furniture and if you don’t like it, you can sell it on Craigslist. You cannot do that with people. I’ve checked. I was trying to see if I could sell my brother and get a new one.


I’ve sold about 11 items in the past 2 months. All but two were sold to men. One woman acted like me: saw the chair, wanted the chair, bartered for the chair, got the chair and hauled it off and the chair and her mother are now living happily ever after.

It was all I could do not to ask for her phone number.




Categories: Dating | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

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