Honest. Go there an follow the link.
Now. It would not be right to go down this path without one of the finest pieces of writing ... ever. My friend and accomplice at The Woodshed discovered it and it is, beyond the shadow of any doubt, excellent. Here it is.
Dear Tiny White Man In My Underpants,
Hey! How’s it going today? My guess is: verging on ovulation, potentially cyst-y. Ha! No seriously, I’m sorry about the bloating. I know that makes the waistband on my underpants tighter than usual, thus restricting your movement, and I apologize for that. It has to be difficult to get a desk and a lamp and a humidity-resistant Windows machine in there already, without the extra pooch. It’s just that sometimes a girl has to eat a bag of salt n’ vinegar chips entirely on her own, you know? I’m sure you do, because you know everything about girls, and the quirks and intricacies of our ladyparts.
I was wondering how your daily report is coming along? I know you have to send one to the other tiny white men in all the other ladies’ underpants so you can all figure out how best we can manage our squishy parts. And for that, I’m truly grateful. One less thing to worry about, am I right? Now I can concentrate on more important things like polishing this glass ceiling and dreaming about how much I love giving a good BJ.
The thing is, though, before you send off your report I wanted to ask you about what I should do regarding this wonky ovary. Now that you’re an expert on all things Unspeakable and Girly, I have to defer to you, Tiny White Man in My Underpants. This son of a bitch ovary hurts. As you know, the doctor wants me to take these birth control pills, but I’m no fan of pills. I prefer wonky ovaries and getting as many abortions as my federal government punch card allows.
Really, though, if you won’t write me a permission slip to give to my employer so I can have birth control pills, then I’ll have to use all my Economy Stimulus money on medicine. That means two things will happen: a) My vag will potentially cause the failure of Wall Street, and b) every time I say the word “stimulus” I’ll be sad instead of horny. Either way, bad for white dudes.
So what are we going to do, Tiny White Man in my Underpants? Any big bright ideas on how I can earn some extra bank for my hoohah? Surely that was one of the courses you took when you were learning everything there is to know about bajingos. Because the thing is? My bajingo is here to stay. And it needs constant care and attention, just like a hermit crab, or a dwarf hamster. So please tell me you really do know everything there is to know about lady caves. This lady cave needs cash, big time. For medicine. So it doesn’t explode.
Interestingly enough, that medicine can also prevent it from producing many more ladies with many more bajingos. That means my abortion punch card gets a rest! And everyone saves money! Quite the nice side effect of ovary-explosion-prevention-pills, no?
So type up that report, will ya? And ask your buddies what they think. A consensus needs to be formed before this cyst KABLAMs, ruining both my outfit and yours. I’m not begging you or anything, because I am a grown woman and grown women do not beg, but please? Think of it this way: if my ovary explodes there is going to be at least one very sad man in the world, forced into celibacy while I bleed all over the house. If you can’t give me medicine for my own vagina’s sake—think of the man in my life. Would you deprive him of the sexytime he deserves after working so hard everyday? Of course you wouldn’t. That would break the code of ethics shared by Tiny White Men in Underpants everywhere.
What I’m saying is: if you can’t approve birth control for the sake of bajingo health, then do it for the penises, man.
Do it for the lonely penises.
They will thank you, and so will I.
Your friend and partner,