Fe Bongolan has taken a brief reprieve from her political column to regain some much-needed sanity and bring down her cortisol levels. In her absence, Fe’s uterus has agreed to take on this week’s Fe-911 column in honor of May Day, also known as Beltane 2012.
We all know Fe has the tendency to blurt out what she really thinks, and lately she’s been blurting and thinking and saying a lot about the cretins out there trying to push her country into a time machine and dialing all of us back to the 14th century. As Fe’s uterus, I agree with her. And I have absolutely no hope that politicians, economists, scientists or engineers will be able to solve the mystery of why everyone, here and abroad, always goes batshit crazy over me every few decades or so throughout the millennia.
First off, I am completely hidden. No one ever pays attention to me except when I need medical care, or when they try to sell Fe products for menstrual bleeding — no longer an issue I might add — or to make me smell nicer. Or, get this — to make my vaginal lips pinker — what is up with that? Billions of dollars paying for expensive spray-on bronzers to tan the rest of the body, yet when it comes to the pussy, you want it bleached? I am quite happy to say my pussy lips are a soft golden olive with hints of rose madder. And not for one second am I even going to contemplate a hose-down with Clorox to make my pussy look like that of a virgin Caucasian’s. What is wrong with this picture?
Now that I’m up here, I might as well ask this question. Why is it that I am called ‘down there’? I am not Australia (or conversely, for my sister uteri below the equator — NOT Nova Scotia). I am not a location. I am a functioning reproductive organ. My fellow uteri and I agree: What’s up with regarding us as a country? Or as real estate in general?