If women ruled the world, we would already have in place a reliable synthetic substitute for good judgment, PMS, menopause, and for hitching a trailer to men who treat women like crap. Already on the market is an FDA approved drug called Nalmefane, which wards off compulsive shopping, or if you have gone completely Winona Ryder, kleptomania.
I want a new pill, one to cover all ailments afflicting women. It would be a tricky job for even the best A- list PR firm in New York City to brand. This female invented wonder drug would protect women against having sex with men who live with their mothers, who take online classes between shifts as a bouncer and brag about it, are selfish in the sack and think a G-spot is a musical note.
This drug would be most commonly prescribed for women over the age of 40, who now use a magnified mirror and obsesses about every little wrinkle, sun spot and the fact that their necks are changing faster than we can say “Oh my God, am I growing a mustache…WTF is up with that anyway”? …while collecting a mass of turtle necks in every color. Plus if we added up all the hours we spend plucking, we could own a horse.
This pill will be proven to be especially effective for women who find themselves smearing fish oil capsules on their face at night, waxing everything that grows, and who feel exhausted all the time.
It will also relieve symptoms of overwhelming desire to pour yourself a stiff one at 10:00am, strangle your kids for tracking dog shit into the house and taking the last of the gum out of your purse. It will treat symptoms of generalized anxiety caused by ex husbands, lack of regular sex, DSL issues, running out of stamps on bill day,and corks that break into expensive bottles of wine.
It will erase past memories of being free and happy at 17 while making out with Derek Stumper in the back of our Fathers 1976 Dodge Maverick with brown side paneling, while unceremoniously slurping Coors beer purchased from Seven-Eleven with a fake ID,never even thinking about the possibility of becoming pregnant.
Of all those times we drove drunk and used no protection and nothing happened.
(With my luck now, if I tossed my underwear into a shared dryer with a random guys underwear at the Laundromat, I’d get knocked up. No fun involved, no big “O”, just wanting to save a bit of money. The only reliable information that I would have to tell his unfortunate offspring would be something like… “Your Daddy used Downey dryer sheets and had a blue laundry basket, sorry honey that’s all I know; it was a long time ago.”)
Now if I go three miles over the speed limit I get pulled over and crying doesn’t work anymore either.
This pill will protect women from becoming old broads with a cigarette and a Cool Whip container of liquor in our hand at 3am while reading a trashy novel in a pilled bathrobe from Zayer Shoppers City while wearing mucklucks. It will keep us from joining any neighborhood book club, or taking up hobbies like stained glass window making, puff paint sweatshirt art, cake decorating or scrap-booking.
It would make us all reformed academic sinners, making up for all the terrible times we skipped classes in college to meet our friends at Chi-Chi’s only to eat the free chips and salsa while ditching out before our order was taken.
It would protect women from meeting men online and taking a trip to Mexico with him a week later.
It would keep us from staring at our asses in the three way mirrors at Banana Republic and constantly scrutinizing our profile wondering what it would be like without the bump on our nose or with breasts that stood at attention instead of stuffing them into insanely expensive bras that do everything but the dishes while cutting into our shoulders all in the name of cleavage.
This miracle pill would let women sail through bouts of hormonal bitchiness and premenopause symptoms such as the newly discovered 17 day lavish period that leave us so damn iron depleted that we look like we've been dead for three weeks and can hardly crawl across the bathroom floor or lift a mascara brush to our face.
The side effects of not taking this magic cure all pill would be all of the below but not limited to:
A broken heart, unplanned pregnancies at 40 with images of going to a high school graduation in a walker, STD’s, huge cell phone bills, financial ruin, acute absentmindedness, dressing way too young for our age, buying everything two sizes too small at stores like “Wet Seal” thinking we look sexy, drinking way too much wine and waking up with a greasy beach artist in California ten years our junior, getting ass tattoos, making drunk dials to men who could give a shit if we live or die, adopting foster children at 55, or worse yet signing invitro papers after a bottle of Tequila with our girlfriends, selling our eggs for shoe money, letting in-laws move in above the garage, taking out a loan for a Prada bag, honing a disinclination to shave our legs in the winter, telling people off who steal our parking space and fail to use a turn signals, wearing white pants or gauchos ( these look good on NO ONE) and other idiot things we do to sabotage our freaking lives.
I want a new pill, one to cover all ailments afflicting women. It would be a tricky job for even the best A- list PR firm in New York City to brand. This female invented wonder drug would protect women against having sex with men who live with their mothers, who take online classes between shifts as a bouncer and brag about it, are selfish in the sack and think a G-spot is a musical note.
This drug would be most commonly prescribed for women over the age of 40, who now use a magnified mirror and obsesses about every little wrinkle, sun spot and the fact that their necks are changing faster than we can say “Oh my God, am I growing a mustache…WTF is up with that anyway”? …while collecting a mass of turtle necks in every color. Plus if we added up all the hours we spend plucking, we could own a horse.
This pill will be proven to be especially effective for women who find themselves smearing fish oil capsules on their face at night, waxing everything that grows, and who feel exhausted all the time.
It will also relieve symptoms of overwhelming desire to pour yourself a stiff one at 10:00am, strangle your kids for tracking dog shit into the house and taking the last of the gum out of your purse. It will treat symptoms of generalized anxiety caused by ex husbands, lack of regular sex, DSL issues, running out of stamps on bill day,and corks that break into expensive bottles of wine.
It will erase past memories of being free and happy at 17 while making out with Derek Stumper in the back of our Fathers 1976 Dodge Maverick with brown side paneling, while unceremoniously slurping Coors beer purchased from Seven-Eleven with a fake ID,never even thinking about the possibility of becoming pregnant.
Of all those times we drove drunk and used no protection and nothing happened.
(With my luck now, if I tossed my underwear into a shared dryer with a random guys underwear at the Laundromat, I’d get knocked up. No fun involved, no big “O”, just wanting to save a bit of money. The only reliable information that I would have to tell his unfortunate offspring would be something like… “Your Daddy used Downey dryer sheets and had a blue laundry basket, sorry honey that’s all I know; it was a long time ago.”)
Now if I go three miles over the speed limit I get pulled over and crying doesn’t work anymore either.
This pill will protect women from becoming old broads with a cigarette and a Cool Whip container of liquor in our hand at 3am while reading a trashy novel in a pilled bathrobe from Zayer Shoppers City while wearing mucklucks. It will keep us from joining any neighborhood book club, or taking up hobbies like stained glass window making, puff paint sweatshirt art, cake decorating or scrap-booking.
It would make us all reformed academic sinners, making up for all the terrible times we skipped classes in college to meet our friends at Chi-Chi’s only to eat the free chips and salsa while ditching out before our order was taken.
It would protect women from meeting men online and taking a trip to Mexico with him a week later.
It would keep us from staring at our asses in the three way mirrors at Banana Republic and constantly scrutinizing our profile wondering what it would be like without the bump on our nose or with breasts that stood at attention instead of stuffing them into insanely expensive bras that do everything but the dishes while cutting into our shoulders all in the name of cleavage.
This miracle pill would let women sail through bouts of hormonal bitchiness and premenopause symptoms such as the newly discovered 17 day lavish period that leave us so damn iron depleted that we look like we've been dead for three weeks and can hardly crawl across the bathroom floor or lift a mascara brush to our face.
The side effects of not taking this magic cure all pill would be all of the below but not limited to:
A broken heart, unplanned pregnancies at 40 with images of going to a high school graduation in a walker, STD’s, huge cell phone bills, financial ruin, acute absentmindedness, dressing way too young for our age, buying everything two sizes too small at stores like “Wet Seal” thinking we look sexy, drinking way too much wine and waking up with a greasy beach artist in California ten years our junior, getting ass tattoos, making drunk dials to men who could give a shit if we live or die, adopting foster children at 55, or worse yet signing invitro papers after a bottle of Tequila with our girlfriends, selling our eggs for shoe money, letting in-laws move in above the garage, taking out a loan for a Prada bag, honing a disinclination to shave our legs in the winter, telling people off who steal our parking space and fail to use a turn signals, wearing white pants or gauchos ( these look good on NO ONE) and other idiot things we do to sabotage our freaking lives.
