You were sitting at the dinner table (you were on the couch in front of the TV wondering about dinner), minding your own business (fighting the urge to search your girlfriend’s underwear drawer to see if she bought anything new) when your sweetie (flavor of the month) handed you a warm dinner (a plate with one measly slice of frozen left-over pizza) and announced her new-found feminism (told you to suck on your own goddamn toes). You tried to have a polite discussion about her new policies and beliefs (you called bullshit and returned to your sports programming*). Together, you decided to part until you could discuss things like healthy, mature adults (she stormed out of there and told you that she wasn’t going to talk until to you until Hell started to thaw out**). You were saddened by your loss, but you recovered quickly (you didn’t even notice that she left until you bit into your frozen pizza and started yell at her for forgetting to cook the damn thing; you threw said pizza into the microwave long enough so the cheese couldn’t break your teeth).
Why did she change? What could have possibly happened in one that made her morph into the Monster of all Cock-blocks available? Let’s take a look at her through her eyes:
Oh my goodness! I started the day off by waking up at 4:30 in the morning so I could cleanse, exfoliate, moisturize, hydrate, massage, oil, tense and tighten my facial skin. I threw my hair pig-tails (or as my boyfriend calls it: “handle bars of love.” Teehee! He is just soooo funny!), quickly assembled flattering gym attire (Like, you would not believe how many stores I had to scourge for a top that held everything close together without the dreaded pancake effect), and flung my tired self to an eight o’clock Pilates class. I had to run back to student housing so I could have a quick shower and cleanse, exfoliate, moisturize, hydrate, massage, oil, tense, tighten, shave, pluck, wax and made-up my face again. I changed into my school outfit that consisted of a micro-mini-demi-skirt, my purple teeny-tiny-tank-top-for-tots, rainbow bangle bracelets, giant hoop earrings, my strappy black high heels, and my colour-coordinated purse! Teehee! “Colour.” That purse is totally shipped from this little town called “
(You know what? This is going to take forever, so let’s just skip ahead.)
So anyways, I was totally walking home to my BoYfRiEnD’s apartment when I ran into this boy… Okay “she” said he was a girl, but no girl I know neglects her eyebrows that badly. Seriously, it was like “she” didn’t even care. She started talking about how I was being controlled by the male masses by letting myself be controlled. I was all like “No way, I get what I want little one, and nobody is going to tell me differently.”
And then “she” was all like “Well if you seriously think that then how come your needs aren’t being met?”
So I was like “What do you know about my needs? They’re mine; I think I know what they are.”
Then “she” said “Pa-lease, your stupid “boyfriend” couldn’t get you to climax if your life depended on it.”
So I totally told “her” off. I said “You and I both that the female orgasm is a myth used by Femi-nazis to control men through sex. Everyone knows that it started out as a means to tie more importance to sex because cheap, easy sluts were chipping away at the Femi-nazi power base. Since sex was really only an arm’s length away, the female orgasm was “discovered” so that there could be a greater distinction between “great” and “poor” sex. Men couldn’t trust that the cheap, easy sluts were actually orgasming because they were getting paid. They were forced back out into the “mating game” and the “Feminist” gained their power back from the cheap, easy sluts.”
Then “she” said something stupid like “You have never orgasmed? Haven’t you ever received oral sex and wondered what the tingling feeling was?”
So I was like “Uh, no, it’s pointless to receive oral sex when you have a vagina. Female oral sex isn’t even sex.”
So “she” started in like “So would that mean to you that getting oral sex wouldn’t be cheating?”
And I’m like “It’s not cheating if it’s not even sex.”
So “she” was all like “Does this drink taste like roofies to you?”
And so, your girlfriend got her first drug-induced orgasm (behold the power of lesbians). The morale of the story is “A climax in time saves nine.” Or “An orgasm a day keeps the feminist at bay!”
P.S. Please don't kill me Feminist. A lot of you are very nice. Unfortunately a few bad apples fucked up the apple sauce, and no amount of cinnamon could ever make it right.
*Figure Skating is a sport, and I won't tell.
**Let's face it; Hell froze over when you two started dating.
Labels: a Femi-nazi tale, exfoliate is a fun word, your girlfriend