Weetabix’s Uterus: I want Oreos.
Weetabix: I just had a bunch of sweet stuff. I don’t need anymore sugar. I’m going to turn into a diabetic or something.
Weetabix’s Uterus: I want Oreos and you can always get some insulin somewhere. I think they make that from sheep pancreas or something. You have good insurance. Give me some goddamn Oreos.
Weetabix: I want to fit into my jeans. My medium jeans that are almost comfortable. Oreos preclude fitting into my jeans.
Weetabix’s Uterus: I don’t give a damn about your jeans. Why would you want to wear jeans when you have all of those incredible comfy and lose pants with the elastic waists? Pants of EXPANSION. Pants which allow room for infinite packages of Double Stuffed Oreos?
Weetabix: But… but… Operation Hottie!
Weetabix’s Uterus: What about Operation Wide Ass? Your husband loves you as a curvy round sex goddess… Your diary readers like that plump little fairy you’ve got. It’s your schtick. (rolls eyes and snickers) You’ve got that fat grrl thing going on. It works. If you lost weight, you’d just be another bimbo. You’d be succumbing to the pressures of the MAN, sweetie, the MAN. All that media bullshit that you say you hate. Make a statement. Be proud of your fat self. You’re not going to lose weight anyway. You never have before, so just stop trying.
Weetabix: I am proud of my fat self. I don’t want to be a thin girl. I just want to be the curvy girl that I picture myself to be.
Weetabix’s Uterus: You’re just a big fat skinny bitch wannabe. Do you want to be all angular and not have a period? Your husband likes your round butt and your big rack and he’ll hate a skinny chick. Do you WANT to have yellow skin and be all gaunt like Monica on Friends? Do you really want to end up with an Arquette husband? I think the only one left is the drag queen.
Weetabix: He likes me no matter what. I give excellent oral–
Weetabix’s Uterus: WOULD YOU JUST EAT THE DAMN OREO!
Weetabix: Leave me alone!
Weetabix’s Uterus: (kicking and punching, contracting in anger) I. Just. Want. Some. Damn. Sugar!(gasps) You hate me, don’t you? You hate being a girl. You hate makeup and squeezing yourself into binding clothing to look pretty and wearing high heels to have longer legs and nice tight Achilles tendons. You…you… don’t even want to be pregnant!
Weetabix: Ow… owww…. No…. no… that’ s not it. I like being a girl. You just make it really hard sometimes.
Weetabix’s Uterus: You’re a boy. A big messy sexist gay boy. Why don’t you just stuff a sock down your pants so you can have a big tube sock penis. I’ll bet you like sex. Admit it. ADMIT IT!
Weetabix: I do admit it. That’s nothing to be ashamed of. Sex rocks.
Weetabix’s Uterus: Real women don’t like sex. Real Women only have sex to make babies. And why didn’t you get some Krispy Kremes when you were in Milwaukee? Huh? You know how good Krispy Kremes are?! You do this because you hate me. If you got in the car and drove right now, we could have hot steamy warm pillows of love covered in glaze of adoration in 90 minutes! Prove that you’re a real woman and get driving!
Weetabix: I will do nothing of the sort. And I’m working. And I’ve got a headache.
Weetabix’s Uterus: That’s low blood sugar, dumbass. Think of it. A nice big box of Krispy Kremes. And bacon. Slap a couple of strips of bacon between to Krispy Kremes. It would be a sandwich of the Gods. Fuck ambrosia and nectar, bitchtard. Aphrodite ate Krispy Kremes and Hickory Smoked thick cut, chased with 48 ounces of ice cold frothy milk!
Weetabix: Whatever.
Weetabix’s Uterus: And she had a baby. Cupid. That was her baby. Little baby Cupid that has a whole holiday all to himself and he never grew up, just stayed a cute little baby. Now that’s something, right there. She was a real woman. She had a happy fulfilled uterus.
Weetabix: Gah. Leave me alone. Please? I’m begging now.
Weetabix’s Uterus: I want OREOS! (singing) Oreos… oh yes…. O…R…E…O… I could be a better writer with OREOS…. I could be a better woman with OREOS…. I don’t think the filling tastes like lard, oh no!… because there’s nothing better in the world than a little loving from the OREOS!
Weetabix: Seriously. Maybe you should think about seeing someone. Maybe professional help.
Weetabix’s Uterus: Yeah? And just how do you propose that? Go ahead. Make that call. ‘Uh, hello Dr… my Uterus talks to me and I was wondering if you could maybe…” and then he’d be like “Hi I’m Dr. So and So at your cervix!” like Patch Adams or something?
Weetabix: I see your point.
Weetabix’s Uterus: Of course you do. That’s because I make sense. I’m really your most logical organ. Remember that. Try to talk to your pancreas. Just you try it. There’s no talking to that thing. I got stuck sitting next to him at the company Christmas party and it was all just one track with him. It’s all glucose… insulin… glucose…insulin. Man! It took a lot of Malibu and Diet Coke to make that shit sound interesting, let me tell you. And need I even mention that I was the hottest damn organ at that party?
Weetabix: Gah.
Weetabix’s Uterus: Gah. What the fuck does that mean? Gah. It doesn’t even sound like anything. You sound like you have like two brain cells when you say that. Oh. Hey. You know what I was thinking? I mean, besides about how you need to do more crunches at night while watching Martha Stewart. I was thinking that you don’t own nearly enough sweatshirts with pictures of angels or kitties on them. You know, those sweatshirts that have the little fake polo shirt collar already sewn into them, in a lovely coordinating color? And your house needs more doilies and silk flower arrangements. It’s like a feng shui analyst threw up in your house. And why didn’t you buy those distressed low rider, boot cut jeans. They looked cute.
Weetabix: Because the last time I checked, I’m not sixteen years old. And while they did look cute, they were $65 and I hate to spend $65 on jeans that will be out of style next week. What’s up with you? First church lady clothes and then the stylings of GD Mandy Moore.
Weetabix’s Uterus: I’m diverse. I’m a diverse organ.
Weetabix: You’re bipolar.
Weetabix’s Uterus: Same damn thing. Now get driving, bitchtard. There are warm Krispy Kremes on the hoof and if you don’t get going, I’m going to make you think of Chelsea and your dead Grandma and the little starving children in Uganda and the final scene of Life Is a House while you’re doing that training session this week and then you’ll be standing up there, walking twenty people through a bunch of procedures while you’re blubbering like a big skinny bitch wannabe. And don’t think I won’t do it.
Weetabix: No on the Krispy Kremes, but a Special K bar can be arranged. And there’s some popcorn at home. Salty Sweet!
Weetabix’s Uterus: That would be good dipped in that can of chocolate frosting you’ve got sitting there too. Can we watch You’ve Got Mail again?
Weetabix: I just watched that last night.
Weetabix’s Uterus: We can watch it with the commentary this time. I want to see Meg Ryan make that wrinkly little mouth thing when she finds out that NY182 is really Tom Hanks. It makes me all soft and squishy and want to be Meg Ryan and be able to look cute when I cry. You’re never going to be a good writer, you know. Your sad scenes are never quite right. Maybe you could change your last name to Ephron and you’d do better.
Weetabix: I bet other girls don’t have these issues.
Weetabix’s Uterus: I bet they fucking don’t. Kind of makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Still got that number of that shrink handy? Huh, psycho beeyatch?
Happy 70th Birthday Norma!
