Weetabix’s Uterus: Is this the place where I sign up for a reassignment?
Don’t give me a look like that. Listen, I’ve tried to be understanding. I’ve tried to be patient. I’ve been sitting back for 31.5 years, envisioning all the uterine glory that was to come. I mean, you should have heard the pep talks I gave the ovaries! I was a regular cheerleader. Don’t discount that. Ovaries are a very pessimistic lot. Very concerned with numbers. They’re the payroll of the torso. I mean, I don’t know what they have to be grumpy about’ it’s a good gig. Nice schedule, early retirement, spend your forties and fifties lounging by the pool of some country club in Cabo. They don’t have to worry about the orchestration of everything. Hell, I’m in charge of the creation of LIFE. That’s me, baby. I’m the mofo STAGING AREA. They just keep shooting out their little skee balls once a month. They don’t have to wonder if this is the month. They don’t have to worry about timing, about temperature, about cycle, about’about’ about whether or not she’s seen a damned Russell Crowe movie! NOTHING.
Think about that for a second. Propagation of the species. That’s me. Right there. That’s my job. You know, like in the Bible? ‘Go forth and multiply’? The other organs don’t have THAT kind of heavy-assed mission statement. I mean, ‘if thy hand ails thee, cut it off?’ Am I right? Seriously. Think about it.
And what do I get from her? Nothing. When I crave pretzels dipped in frosting, Oreos, and the coating from KFC’s Original Recipe Chicken, she starts spouting Operation Hottie manuals. Operation Hottie? Hrmph’ more like Operation Nottie.
Patience? I think I’ve had plenty of patience, bitchtard. I mean, if I thought it would work out, I could hang in there. I really could. I could knit some baby booties, make some Christmas cards like I saw on Martha Stewart last week. (Ah, Martha Stewart. Now there’s a happy uterus. She’s bitchy 28 days in a row. Now THAT’S a sweet ass assignment. )
Almost 20 years of fertility and not one fertilized egg. Oh sure, there was that lovely year and a half where I thought I was pregnant but that turned out to be the big Depo Provera scam. I’m still bitter about that. All of that estrogen completely gone to waste. You should have seen her boobs, too. They floated like Underdog at the Macy’s Day parade. I think we gave the old men at YMCA chest pains when she’d swim laps. I’m just saying. And does she appreciate it? Of course not. That guy she keeps around. He appreciated it. But don’t even get me started on that crap. I mean, the man’s got a loaded weapon and do you think he can make a bull’s eye? No. Stingy bastard. Someone explain to him how this works.
(sigh)
You know, it wasn’t always like this. When she was eleven and I realized that she was going to have these child-birthing hips, I did a little happy dance. I couldn’t help but start doing my job a little earlier than scheduled because I wanted to. It wasn’t about quotas then. It was about joy. (sniffle) She’s the spitting image of a fertility goddess! But she was babysitting for her friend KimVee’s adorable little baby the other day, you know the one that is magically subdued by our hypnotic bosom? And not only did she not know how to work the bottle steamer but she was completely dumbfounded by the Diaper Genie. She just kept trying to shove that pee pee diaper in it, like it was plutonium and needed proper containment. She kept saying ‘Gah! Gah!’ and looking warily at his exposed little baby penis, like that thing was going to go off at any moment.
Tell me, what the hell is ‘Gah!’ supposed to mean in the first place? Gah? It’s ridiculous.
So honestly, I think there was a mistake. Someone screwed up somewhere. Children love her face. They smile when she smiles. She’s got this inherent talent. You should see her do the Baby Bounce Walk’ she’s a natural.
There had to have been a clerical error. I’m not blaming anyone or anything. I just want things fixed. That’s why I’m thinking reassignment. I’ve got my sights set on a nice stay at home mom, raised strict Catholic and who came from a big family, but I’m not picky. I’d even take one of those women who end up marrying their convicted murder pen pal, because hey, conjugal visits are what made this country great, right?
So let’s do some negotiating here. What do you say? Can we talk?
Wait’. What do you mean? Hey! Don’t walk away! Listen bitchtard, don’t fuck with me. I’ll kick your ass, so help me God, I’ll mess you up! My posse will take you OUT!
God damn skinny bureaucratic bitches.
Oh, yeah, I almost forgot… do you know Weetabix in real life? Then read this. Do it. You don’t want me to come over there and kick your ass too, do you?
