Just To Clarify

I love this woman.
Now HERE is someone who deserves to be Freshly Pressed or Processed or Pooped or Pulled-Apart or whatever it’s called.

Pornos should be made in her honor.

King of States!

You want to curtail my right to control what happens inside my personal uterus because once upon a time ten years ago, you saw the grainy outline of a pulsating bean on a tiny television screen.

Got it. Thank you for the compelling scientific data.

I assume this bodes well for my personal policy recommendation that we abolish public libraries because when I was 19 years old, I almost hit a Basset Hound with my car on the way to a library. Okay, it wasn’t a library, it was a Waldenbooks, but they’re out of business now so libraries it is.

What? It’s like you WANT puppies to die. You disgust me.

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The wonderful, nameable egg

I’m up early for god only knows what reason, and watching one of my favorite shows, “Up With Chris Hayes.” One topic this week is culture wars–one of the many third rails of the Democratic agenda. Take a step closer to that rail, and the whole personhood rhetoric emanates from it.

Ugh. Personhood amendments. We have a bunch of extremist nutjob (I know, a bit redundant) Tea Baggin’ Republicans who don’t want big gummint in general, but when it comes to us wimminfolk, the Baggers believe that we need to be regulated up the ying-yang. A wave of ridiculous bills came riding in on transvaginal ultrasound wands into many state legislatures roughly two years ago, after the Tea Bagger Revolution in Congress. However, the good thing is, many of these bills were introduced, voted upon and failed. Some didn’t even make the ballot in states that allegedly have super-special relationships with the mostest specialist homeboy of them all, God. Now, to a non-religious person, those failures say that God has bigger things to worry about–like strife, sickness, hunger, poverty–than making sure women who are menstruating aren’t, um, doing whatever. Then, there is one particular state, where according to the law, all menstruating women are pregnant. Or something like that. This Arizona law is so Draconian that the main image I have in my head is a woman being dragged to an interrogation room at her local Phoenix CVS for attempting to purchase tampons–murder weapons.

Back to Chris Hayes (who needs to stop whining about being on a book tour & leaving the work of parenting to his wife–please–y’all have help. Shuttie.), personhood was brought up which got me thinking: Perhaps I need to start naming the maybe 20 eggs left in my cob-webbed womb. Hmm.

Here’s what I’ve got so far:

Vladimir, Simka, Aloysius, Schmenkman, Huxtable, Poon, Ping, Yarbotz, Dale Earnhardt, Louboutin, and Nam. That’s a good start.

What are your suggestions?

A Womb with a View

The world is going to hell in hand basket, that’s no secret. Some folks long for the time when they believe life was easy and good — the 1950s seems to be the era of focus these days. I don’t quite get that since it was only good for one particular portion of society–White men–but not exactly a stellar time for the rest of us.

Then, there are those who want to regress even further. We’re talking all the way back to their very first indoor swimming pool — the womb. Since that’s physically impossible, Freyja Sewell has replicated a womb that will fit our bulbous asses and bloated egos that’s constructed from natural fibers like wool, not sinew or guts or muscle.

Sewell is hawking this monolith of a wool womb as a personal retreat of sorts, a place for “contemplation and rest” from the hustle and bustle of life — mainly life with computers and cell phones and cameras. Oh, and it’s a nice way to deal with soaring property values. She views these wombs as a way to hide from an increasingly overpopulated and un-private world. Her wooly booly womb is a way for folks to peacefully co-exist in this world — by not dealing with people and instead retreating into an orb that probably has poor ventilation and is, let’s face it, a moth-magnet.

And, should you decide you’ve had enough of smelling your own farts whilst dealing with Facebook withdrawal symptoms and the swarm of moths that are nom-nomming on your womb walls, you can always open up the womb (think c-section) for added seating. You’ll need this extra seating to accommodate your guests for the blow-out party you’ll inevitably have to help bring you back to the shitty, real world.

Trust me, you’ll want to come back. Why would you want to hide from it?

Knit one, pussy two

I need to learn how to knit.

Sadly, it’s a civic duty these day since some of our esteemed lawmakers are taking it upon themselves to decide what us gals can do with our breeding parts. Some liken us to farm animals, others want us to watch an abortion before we make that wrenching (read: personal) yet LEGAL DECISION to have one and finally, others want to limit our access to birth control.

(Side note: what the fuck is wrong with Arizona?) 

Apparently we’re no better than cattle and other four-legged creatures that inhabit farms n’ shit.

What does this have to do with knitting you ask? Earlier, I came across this brilliant plan.

The Snatchel Project

Let’s make a uterus or VJJ for each male rep in congress!

The idea behind this is simple and genius: Keep the government out of our lady parts, but if you feel you must play around with our uteri, why here’s one of your own! It’s soft, and kinda pretty and informative — and the one that looks like a labia can be used for practice (shudder) since I’m sure that most of these women-haters have no idea how to ‘work’ it! Also, if we do decide to use birth control, we’re not sluts, whores, strumpets, harlots, skanks, loose, etc. We have a right to make our own decisions about our lives, y’all don’t. So, piss off (that’s my editorial comment, not the owners of http://www.governmentfreevjj.com/ , or maybe it is, they’re just classier than I am, (s)natch).

The sad thing is, most of Reps won’t get it and will probably give these to their farm animals to use as chew toys.