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Fantz in Your Pants: Bro vs. Spayed and men-o-pause musings

Come take my uterus, Big GOP Brother. For real. I don’t want it anymore.


Yo bros, I need to pause all sexual activity for a stint while my uterus shrivels up and ceases to menstruate.

It may take years. I’ll probably gain weight. I’ll have hot flashes and night sweats. And there will be blood. A lot of irregular blood.

That kiddie pool of lube probably won’t remedy the vaginal dryness, but that’s OK — my hormones are riding the Cyclone at Lakeside Amusement Park right now so I don’t want to screw you anyway.

While I am experiencing “men o pause,” why don’t you go buy that Tesla and ride it around the sun a time or two? Maybe I’ll be done after.

Scholars say “menopause” is of Greek origin, but we all know it was coined by the Fat Elephant Bosses at The White Dude Academy of Frat Bros.

PSA: I am not currently experiencing menopause, but my age tells me it’s on the horizon. I’m still waiting around to get my fax from the Academy letting me know when I should tell the men in my life, “men, o pause.”

The thing is, I’m done with my uterus. I don’t want it anymore. Becoming a mom was the best thing to ever happen to me. My feelings constantly burst with so many fireworks just even thinking about my child. When she’s not next to me, my heart aches. So my uterus did its job, now I’m cool with it retiring. Like on the floor of a hospital trash can.

Can you please spay me, doc?

NO, they say.

Then make it stop.

Try this IUD first, they say. (My uterine wall shed nonstop for six months, like a molting garden snake escaping 10 python bodies. Finally that Y-shaped plastic settled in just this month. Maybe I won’t need a case of tampons for next month? TBD.)

To be fair to my overproducing fallopian tubes, I am likely more fertile than most. Perhaps that’s why the IUD took a while for my uterus to clean house. I come from a line of semi-automatic eggs that attack sperm the minute they gingerly saunter out. My fam breeds like humankind has been eradicated. My mom is the second-oldest of a baker’s dozen. We’re a fertile family.

But I had my one child, so now why won’t they rip out my uterus? It’ll be real quick. I’ll be back to smashing patriarchies and glass ceilings the next day. Dudes can have inpatient snip-snip surgery to pause their own spray, but women want their baby-makers removed?

Nope. Go home and bleed, woman.

Oh, and if you inadvertently get pregnant, you will ride that bitch for 40 weeks and like it, all at age 45.

Maybe I should take it out myself. Cut it up into pieces. Frame the pieces and mail them to the potential GOP presidential candidates. They want to run it anyway.

Ladies, hear me out. No disrespect to government and such (ahem), but maybe we should decorate the stairs of the high court with bloody tampons. I mean, they’re the lawmakers’ uteruses, so we need show them what’s happening from the inside. Research and development, boys. You know the inside-out of your crypto, your Corvette, your couch, your crotch. It’s only fair that you have insider info on your uterus. (Not with your dick.)

If it’s your choice what stays in my body, then I’m going to show you what comes out of it. Here, settle your stomach with this fresh, cold White Claw. It’s the new “surf” flavor. Come ride that red tide with us, boys.