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In This Issue
- Columbia Expands, Gentrifies Outer Space
- Spectator Artist Plagiarizes Fed's Ben Schwartz
- Farewell from Feditrix Kate
- Media Decency Campaign Attacks Stern
- EC Fire Alarms Pester, Endanger Students
- Don't Get Impregnated By Young Republicans
- Letters to the Feditor
- Sci-Fi Poo Theory
- Sports Beer: Not Good For Sports
- Butler: The Engineering Frontier
- Unarians Help You Go To Space Life
- Totally Fab New Planet Suggestions
- Bush and Cheney's Excellent Adventure
- Fed Student's Guide To Meningitis
- Columbia Girls LOVE Barnard Prez Schapiro
- Funny Comic #543: Adventures of Ice Bitch
- Able & Baker: Monkeys in Space
- Honoring Jesse Strouth- A Highly Derivative Cartoon
- They Watch
Don't Get Impregnated By Young Republicans
Breaking That Elusive 28 Day No-Bleeding Record
Mahnaz Dar
Not long ago, my period came a week late. While seven days of being able to wear white without fear seems might not sound all that bad to you, this blood free time in my life was tinged with a few negative emotions. Upon lamenting about my unreliable uterus to a friend of mine, she responded, "So...you think you might be preggers?" That was an unwelcome prospect. It wasn't that I minded the thought of a little being camping out in my uterus; zygotes are all the rage nowadays, and I kind of liked the idea of having what I imagined to be an adorable, tiny, anime-creature living inside me...at least, until I finally worked up the courage to insert the wire hanger another few centimeters up.
No, the problem was this potential zygote's father. It wouldn't have been so bad if it had been an industrious-minded Asian student with extra income from his hundreds of on campus jobs. He could probably have sent me off to have an abortion somewhere fancy, like Sri Lanka or Bangkok, where they just reach into your uterus and pull the still living bloody fetus out, à la Temple of Doom. Or if he'd been a rich Jew, who could have saved me the shame of returning to my parent's house to beg for my abortion allowance. Or even the anti-Christ. But no. I had had the idiocy to get knocked up (well...ostensibly) by a conservative Republican.
Now, I'm not knocking right-wingers: they can sell brownies to Hispanics at crazy, low prices, jerk off to Phyllis Schafly, and adorn their lair with framed photos of Reagan in a non-ironic fashion all they like. But you simply can't get yourself impregnated with their seed and then expect to have a reasonable conversation about finding your local Planned Parenethood. It's like giving a kid a puppy. And then seeing their eyes fill with tears as you take it away...and throw it down a flight of stairs onto a concrete floor, and watch puppy pull itself around on its remaining unbroken leg until it finally stops moving.
Conservatives: they're kids at heart, really. Not like us left-wingers, with our black, gallows- humor. We can spend hours coming up with cute fetus names, avoiding radiation, and abstaining from alcohol, only to get the little guy pumped out eight weeks later, all the while cackling, "Ha! Gotcha! Thought you were gonna live, SUCKER!" I mean, they're great at this stage where they barely take up space and just suck the food from your blood stream, or as I call it, the "sea monkey stage," but when they progress to being as much trouble as a goldfish or a hermit crab, you've gotta draw the line.
And besides, what would my uber liberal immigrant parents say? They'd throw me out of the house and scream at me in broken English about how I had brought shame upon the family. Then they would probably taunt me to, "go live with right-wing boyfriend, Republic-cunt!"
When I finally did get around to mentioning to him that it had been nearly thirty days since I had last bled out of my vagina, and that my cycle was never usually more than four weeks long, he replied, "All right! Maybe you can beat your record!" Upon further thought (read: me bursting into loud and prolonged tears), he presented me with a logical proof (the kind from high school, with p's and q's and squiggly lines), that explained why I couldn't be knocked up. And they say compassionate conservative is an oxymoron.
"Silly boy!" I responded, "I know nothing of your logic and rationality-I have a uterus!" Seriously. Girls and logic? Not good bedfellows. For all I knew, there was a little bridge between the stomach and fallopian tubes that facilitated conception.
By the thirty second day of my cycle, I was getting worried. It was then that my crazy right-wing boyfriend turned to the Internet to solve our problems. Apparently, one's period can be induced through the consumption of such commonly found household objects as honey, vanilla, and celery. A trip to the local grocer was worthwhile: I discovered that there is a company that manufactures celery-flavored soda. Also, Morton Williams doesn't carry its honey in bear form. Bastards.
After a night of being force-fed honey-vanilla-flavored tea, I awoke to that oh-so-familiar feeling between my legs, that feeling that if you move the wrong way, the gates of hell will break loose...my girly juices! They'd returned! "Aunt Flo!" I exclaimed, "you've come back! Don't ever go AWOL on me again!" That was a watershed moment there.
Which leads me to my last and final point. I don't want to seem like an agenda-crazy feminazi, but what if I hadn't been so lucky? What if honey and celery juice and vanilla hadn't induced my girly fluids? What if I had indeed been "preggers?" As a member of society, where would you rather see someone like me? Four or five years down the line, telling a story to her child about, "the time mommy tried to abort you in the supermarket"...or lying spread-eagled on a cold, metal table, telling the abortionist her life story in a jaded, bitter tone of voice, waiting for the ether to take effect? Honestly, there are some people who just shouldn't be passing on their genetic material. Namely, people relying on Morton Williams as their chief form of birth control -- and republicans.
No, the problem was this potential zygote's father. It wouldn't have been so bad if it had been an industrious-minded Asian student with extra income from his hundreds of on campus jobs. He could probably have sent me off to have an abortion somewhere fancy, like Sri Lanka or Bangkok, where they just reach into your uterus and pull the still living bloody fetus out, à la Temple of Doom. Or if he'd been a rich Jew, who could have saved me the shame of returning to my parent's house to beg for my abortion allowance. Or even the anti-Christ. But no. I had had the idiocy to get knocked up (well...ostensibly) by a conservative Republican.
Now, I'm not knocking right-wingers: they can sell brownies to Hispanics at crazy, low prices, jerk off to Phyllis Schafly, and adorn their lair with framed photos of Reagan in a non-ironic fashion all they like. But you simply can't get yourself impregnated with their seed and then expect to have a reasonable conversation about finding your local Planned Parenethood. It's like giving a kid a puppy. And then seeing their eyes fill with tears as you take it away...and throw it down a flight of stairs onto a concrete floor, and watch puppy pull itself around on its remaining unbroken leg until it finally stops moving.
Conservatives: they're kids at heart, really. Not like us left-wingers, with our black, gallows- humor. We can spend hours coming up with cute fetus names, avoiding radiation, and abstaining from alcohol, only to get the little guy pumped out eight weeks later, all the while cackling, "Ha! Gotcha! Thought you were gonna live, SUCKER!" I mean, they're great at this stage where they barely take up space and just suck the food from your blood stream, or as I call it, the "sea monkey stage," but when they progress to being as much trouble as a goldfish or a hermit crab, you've gotta draw the line.
And besides, what would my uber liberal immigrant parents say? They'd throw me out of the house and scream at me in broken English about how I had brought shame upon the family. Then they would probably taunt me to, "go live with right-wing boyfriend, Republic-cunt!"
When I finally did get around to mentioning to him that it had been nearly thirty days since I had last bled out of my vagina, and that my cycle was never usually more than four weeks long, he replied, "All right! Maybe you can beat your record!" Upon further thought (read: me bursting into loud and prolonged tears), he presented me with a logical proof (the kind from high school, with p's and q's and squiggly lines), that explained why I couldn't be knocked up. And they say compassionate conservative is an oxymoron.
"Silly boy!" I responded, "I know nothing of your logic and rationality-I have a uterus!" Seriously. Girls and logic? Not good bedfellows. For all I knew, there was a little bridge between the stomach and fallopian tubes that facilitated conception.
By the thirty second day of my cycle, I was getting worried. It was then that my crazy right-wing boyfriend turned to the Internet to solve our problems. Apparently, one's period can be induced through the consumption of such commonly found household objects as honey, vanilla, and celery. A trip to the local grocer was worthwhile: I discovered that there is a company that manufactures celery-flavored soda. Also, Morton Williams doesn't carry its honey in bear form. Bastards.
After a night of being force-fed honey-vanilla-flavored tea, I awoke to that oh-so-familiar feeling between my legs, that feeling that if you move the wrong way, the gates of hell will break loose...my girly juices! They'd returned! "Aunt Flo!" I exclaimed, "you've come back! Don't ever go AWOL on me again!" That was a watershed moment there.
Which leads me to my last and final point. I don't want to seem like an agenda-crazy feminazi, but what if I hadn't been so lucky? What if honey and celery juice and vanilla hadn't induced my girly fluids? What if I had indeed been "preggers?" As a member of society, where would you rather see someone like me? Four or five years down the line, telling a story to her child about, "the time mommy tried to abort you in the supermarket"...or lying spread-eagled on a cold, metal table, telling the abortionist her life story in a jaded, bitter tone of voice, waiting for the ether to take effect? Honestly, there are some people who just shouldn't be passing on their genetic material. Namely, people relying on Morton Williams as their chief form of birth control -- and republicans.