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The Red Bloat hath arrived at last, and as usual, I've whined and moaned my way through the first-day pangs and wheedled Roomie into dipping into my ever-dwindling store of British tea. I don't think he was going to until I announced that I hoped his prostate tried to escape through his anus so that he could share my pain. Maybe he thought it was a threat, because he produced tea shortly thereafter.
For years, I've said that I couldn't wait until menopause, but after seeing a depiction of the symptoms on an episode of The Closer, I'm not so sure. Yes, the cramps suck, as does Satan jabbing his briny finger up my bunghole at random intervals for three days, but that sounds better than fevers, chills, night sweats, dizzy spells, and mood swings any time my panty manna decides to kick up didoes. Horrid things happen to me if I get too hot. Fluids spew from both sides of the equator. I break out in hives and hyperventilate, and in extreme case, a bum gnome discovers the tuba in my underpants and begins to play "Smoke on the Water". Having these symptoms catch me unawares doesn't sound like fun, and God knows how long menopause lasts. A year? Good Lord. I'd either have to become a recluse or hope that I was Henry Jekyll more than Edward Hyde.
Fears such as these are why I will never wind up in the White House. I just know that if I were President, my body would go into total meltdown, and I would cause a national uproar when my State of the Union address was drowned out by the noxious woodwind mutterings of my ass. The press would speculate about my health, and I'd be forced to cancel a trip to Germany, lest their cabbage-heavy cuisine inspire another ill-timed fullisade.
And yes, I have actually thought about this. I have lots of time on my hands.
Besides, if a black man is only now getting the chance to run for President, then I suppose it'll be another 1000 years before a disabled woman with gas issues sniffs the office. They'll have a better Bean-o by then.
For years, I've said that I couldn't wait until menopause, but after seeing a depiction of the symptoms on an episode of The Closer, I'm not so sure. Yes, the cramps suck, as does Satan jabbing his briny finger up my bunghole at random intervals for three days, but that sounds better than fevers, chills, night sweats, dizzy spells, and mood swings any time my panty manna decides to kick up didoes. Horrid things happen to me if I get too hot. Fluids spew from both sides of the equator. I break out in hives and hyperventilate, and in extreme case, a bum gnome discovers the tuba in my underpants and begins to play "Smoke on the Water". Having these symptoms catch me unawares doesn't sound like fun, and God knows how long menopause lasts. A year? Good Lord. I'd either have to become a recluse or hope that I was Henry Jekyll more than Edward Hyde.
Fears such as these are why I will never wind up in the White House. I just know that if I were President, my body would go into total meltdown, and I would cause a national uproar when my State of the Union address was drowned out by the noxious woodwind mutterings of my ass. The press would speculate about my health, and I'd be forced to cancel a trip to Germany, lest their cabbage-heavy cuisine inspire another ill-timed fullisade.
And yes, I have actually thought about this. I have lots of time on my hands.
Besides, if a black man is only now getting the chance to run for President, then I suppose it'll be another 1000 years before a disabled woman with gas issues sniffs the office. They'll have a better Bean-o by then.
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