I wrote this in a fit of anger over the nomination of John Roberts as Chief Justice of the Supreme Court. All is lost! The world is coming to an end! I began trembling and rocking back and forth as soon as I heard of this tragedy.
This was no mere nomination, my sisters.
This was a brazen act of violence against MY BODY!
I can hear the Gestapo coming for my birth-control pills! I’ll have to move underground. Deep into the catacombs under my floorboards. The Patriarchy will never find me there.
So in the meantime, here is my anger. Expressed in poetry, eloquent as it always is…
I Am A Twat.
I’m a hot, moist, inviting twat.
Warm, wet, inviting.
But not to you or your friends.
Even if I were single,
But I am not, for I have a boyfriend,
Which proves I’m not a man-hater, so stop saying that.
No, these nubile thighs do not wrap ’round the hips of Republicans.
You can fuck yourselves,
Or the dry twats of the self-hating misogynists who allow your tiny penis to penetrate them.
Um, the wounds you get from rubbing your un-lubricated dick repeatedly into your heartless, soulless woman.
Iodine is your best friend, my be-scarred friend.
I will fuck without making children day in and out.
And you will know it and you won’t be able to stop it.
Toss and turn, you mean, jealous motherfuckers.
I’m not going to be “punished” with babies.
Which makes all your efforts a failure.
Some non-procreating women escaped.
So give up now.
You’ll never catch all of us.
Give up now.
For I Am A Twat!
(PS: This poem in no way suggests that I’ve just let it slip that I regard my vagina as a form of currency with which I can induce members of the opposite sex to act in ways that favor me. Only stupid non-feminist wymmin do that, and I am clearly above the practice of using my vagina to get special treatment!)