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“George, do you have an extra tampon?” Bob whispered to his coworker.

George picked up his satchel, shuffled around inside the never-ending cavern of essentials.

“Dang it. I don’t, buddy, ” George said. “I have Midol though, if you need it. Ask Henry in sales. He always has a stockpile of tampons. Or look in the Men’s Only supply closet, the government just sent us our monthly supply of federally funded, free sanitary supplies.”

“Oh, my cramps,” Bob said, wincing as he ran towards Henry’s office. “I’ll be back for the Midol.”

Welcome to men-stration. No matter what parts we have between our legs, I believe we all experience what’s been tagged as PMS, or at least some form of it. This condition results in a wave of unstable emotions, rollercoaster hormones, lashing anger, limited patience and — yup, that sounds like all of us.

However, only (what’s been dubbed) the fairer sex is who feels the physical pain of this condition.

And by golly, woe the hell is us. So shut your kisser and keep reading.

If only everybody could feel the pain and flow of clotted-up dead eggs that runneth alongside a gush of blood through the pelvic region once every 28 days. All you have to do is slap on a smile as you feel literal cups of fluid gush through you, hoping the last sanitary product isn’t overflowing from changing it 20 minutes ago.

Am I making you uncomfortable?

If we don’t change it in time, we’ll simply stain our clothes, wrap a hoodie around our waists, get back to work and throw our drawers out later. Then when the raging cramps come on so strong that not even Vicodin can ease the pain, we double over, often so nauseous in agony that we choke back vomit and beg the universe to throw us back in bed.

Yet we just keep on rollin’ like the 20-ton dump trucks we are.

Sometimes our uteruses swell to unnatural proportions, causing our backs to give out. Sometimes we get blinding migraines for days straight. Sometimes we can’t even budge from a doubled-over position until the cramps subside.

Grossed out?

However, if everybody got their periods, the outcome could be quite catastrophic. Much of the workforce would call in sick. And what if dudes hit menstrual synchrony? They’d be rage-texting each other about women while sobbing through a Lifetime movie marathon, fist deep in a pint of ice cream. (Stereotypes are fun. That was sarcasm.)

Many men would be able to handle it — there’s a gaggle of testosterone-pumping humans who are empathic and tolerant with pain. The weak whiners, though? Not a chance.

It’s a real hoot. I shan’t wish it on my enemies, but I’m bitter right now because a recent three-month birth control mishap caused me to bleed for 90-plus days. It was fantastic. I became extremely fatigued, exhausted and weak from losing blood and iron.

And I am elated to exorbitantly overshare this with you.

So to make my peace with the lord for bleeding like a heathen, I’m going to need a trash bag of pigeons to present to him. Because I’m a vile and disgusting human.

Leviticus penned, “Whenever a woman has her menstrual period, she will be ceremonially unclean for seven days.”

In order for broads to become clean, on the eighth day, they have to wrangle up two turtle doves and give them to a priest, who will do some weird ceremonial shit with them.

Since I’m clearly tagged as impure for one-fourth of a calendar year, I’ll need to force-flex handfuls of trash doves into a garbage bag as a sacrifice for that hippie dude in the sky.

“Through this process, the priest will purify her before the Lord for the ceremonial impurity caused by her bleeding.”

Bob, George, Henry, sing with me: Here birdy, birdy, birdy. Coo. Coo. Coo.