Ah, Aunt Flo. The Crimson Wave. For the love of God, don't look her directly in the eyes.
Don't run away crying just yet, gentlemen - I know, periods are scary and the women who have them scarier - but never fear, just like any other demon, this one can be conquered with knowledge and a little bit of bravery. And chocolate. Guys, seriously, NEVER forget the chocolate.
Because there's nothing like an outdated stereotype to get the ball rolling.
Look, I'll spare you all the medical jargon and get straight to the point. If you're old enough to read this blog, you already know where babies do and don't come from and the mechanics that make procreation possible.
Still, if I had a dollar for every time I heard a man scoff at a woman doubled over with cramps or insist that we just "suck it up" and "quit being such a baby," I'd have enough ones to dump in a decent-sized swimming pool and wade into like Scrooge - friggin' - McDuck. You suck it up, assface. Just kidding, I love you. Also, quit looking at me like that. I'm bloated and feely and I don't want to f*cking talk about it. Now hold me. Get the f*ck away from me. CHEESEBURGER!
The Horror
...basically, once a month a woman's uterus gets all hormonal and decides it wants a baby. Like, now.
When it doesn't get a baby, it gets even more hormonal, becomes irrationally angry, and starts shredding its own walls down around it like a screaming, teenaged were-banshee who just found out One Direction split up or something.
Or, like, this guy practicing Jui-Jitsu in the darkest depths of the lady-bits.
Have you ever been kicked in the balls? Dumb question. Okay, so remember that time you got kicked in the twig and giggleberries - and imagine that, even after that horror, your testicles responded not by retreating safely into your stomach to lick their wounds and seek therapy, but by throwing a full-blown hissy-fit and ripping your manhood out all the way from your stomach down, and then forcefully spitting it through your pee hole in unpredictable bursts. (**women DO NOT menstruate through their pee holes, but if you don't already know where it exits, I'll spare your imagination that monstrosity.**)
Pain does things to people, man. And when you're emotionally unstable and in pain and having to rush to the bathroom every half hour to clean up the foul, disgusting bowels of Hell that keep exiting out your fun zone, it does something to your brain. This is why women are crazy. This is why women are crazier on their periods. Our own bodies rebel against us at every turn. We can't even trust our own built-in recreational zones. How's that for f*cked up?
Not only that, but in some twisted joke from the Universe, women's periods tend to sync up when they're around each other for any length of time. Like, if they live together. Or work together. Or pass each other in thewine grocery store. What the royal F*CK, Universe?
On a (semi) side note, where the hell do they find poor, sadistic bastards willing to work in women's correctional facilities? That's hundreds of women all bleedy and stabby and forbidden to have or do any of the things that make that time of the month bearable - ALL AT THE SAME TIME. That's nightmare fuel there, guys. Like, I imagine that for one week out of every month, those facilities just lock down, all the staff stays at home, and they just let the women do what they're going to do, Lord of the Flies style. Then at the end of that week they send the Correctional Officer they like least (the Red Shirt, if you will) to check out the scene and assess the damages before they send anyone else back in.
No, obviously, when your nether regions look like something Stephen King wouldn't even write about because it's so gory, you have to have ways to keep that shit in check. Cue the feminine hygiene industry, which makes approximately too much f*cking money on things that are just going wind up looking like Rob Zombie movie props and be thrown away.
If you've ever accidentally wandered into the feminine hygiene aisles at your local store, you'll already know that there are ridiculous amounts of products designed for just this thing. To the unexperienced observer, monthly items boil down to pads or tampons. Not so, grasshopper. There are hundreds of brands and even more types, sizes, absorbencies, and God only knows what other features that differentiate one product from the next. Here are just a few:
"Feminine Wipes." Supposedly, these things are meant to keep a lady's bits fresh and flowery, while still maintaining the delicate PH balance of her amusement park. So, baby wipes. They're f*cking baby wipes.
"Douche." Nope, not Kevin from the frat party or the guy who cut you off in traffic the other day - this stuff is supposed to literally flush out all the nasties in a woman's nasties. Because obviously our bodies aren't proficient enough at cleaning themselves out while they're shredding our baby makers from the inside out and spitting the remains out our hoo-has like some military-grade tommy gun on crack. Know what an enema is? Yea, it's that, but for vaginas. I know, gross. Also, this crap was proven unsafe several decades ago, but women still feel the need to try to one-up nature, so here it still sits on the shelf.
"Pantyliners." Exactly as the name suggests, these are just light little "liners" that go in a woman's undies to protect from the extremely light blood flow that tends to happen at the very beginning and very end of a period. I have no joke for these, they're actually pretty handy.
"Tampons." Here's where it starts to get crazy, guys. There are several different types and absorbencies of tampons, and good luck guessing which a woman will need from one period to the next. There's "Light," "Regular," "Overnight," "Heavy," "Sport," "Teen," "Tween," "Super," and "Dear God, is Someone Being Murdered in There?"
"Pads." Now, this one's even worse than tampons, because for some reason someone in the feminine hygiene marketing team thought that giving us 5 billion wing-size choices was helpful somehow. What the f*ck are wings and why do pads need them, you ask? Well, they're these helpful little flaps on the sides of pads that are meant to protect panties from overflow, but are more likely going to twist around and glue themselves to legs and ass cheeks. So then when a woman tries to pull down her panties to use the restroom, the pad itself is either going to dislodge from the panties and hang from her nether regions like the weirdest accessory ever, or she's going to get a nice, unexpected waxing in approximately one square inch of somewhere very sensitive. Yay wings.
Pads also come in dainty choices like, "Light," "Heavy," "Overnight," and "Give up and buy the adult diapers already, lady."
So guys, if you ever find yourself having to buy feminine products for your lady, never fear, brave soldier - here's what you do:
Pain does things to people, man. And when you're emotionally unstable and in pain and having to rush to the bathroom every half hour to clean up the foul, disgusting bowels of Hell that keep exiting out your fun zone, it does something to your brain. This is why women are crazy. This is why women are crazier on their periods. Our own bodies rebel against us at every turn. We can't even trust our own built-in recreational zones. How's that for f*cked up?
Not only that, but in some twisted joke from the Universe, women's periods tend to sync up when they're around each other for any length of time. Like, if they live together. Or work together. Or pass each other in the
On a (semi) side note, where the hell do they find poor, sadistic bastards willing to work in women's correctional facilities? That's hundreds of women all bleedy and stabby and forbidden to have or do any of the things that make that time of the month bearable - ALL AT THE SAME TIME. That's nightmare fuel there, guys. Like, I imagine that for one week out of every month, those facilities just lock down, all the staff stays at home, and they just let the women do what they're going to do, Lord of the Flies style. Then at the end of that week they send the Correctional Officer they like least (the Red Shirt, if you will) to check out the scene and assess the damages before they send anyone else back in.
F*ck this. I'm becoming a Priest.
The Money Pit
Go ahead, laugh for a minute while you make the connection between vaginas and the amount of money that men will spend to ensure access to said vaginas. Or that they will pay after access to that vagina has been restricted, because no one ever thinks about prenups when they're in love. That's not what I'm talking about here.No, obviously, when your nether regions look like something Stephen King wouldn't even write about because it's so gory, you have to have ways to keep that shit in check. Cue the feminine hygiene industry, which makes approximately too much f*cking money on things that are just going wind up looking like Rob Zombie movie props and be thrown away.
If you've ever accidentally wandered into the feminine hygiene aisles at your local store, you'll already know that there are ridiculous amounts of products designed for just this thing. To the unexperienced observer, monthly items boil down to pads or tampons. Not so, grasshopper. There are hundreds of brands and even more types, sizes, absorbencies, and God only knows what other features that differentiate one product from the next. Here are just a few:
"Feminine Wipes." Supposedly, these things are meant to keep a lady's bits fresh and flowery, while still maintaining the delicate PH balance of her amusement park. So, baby wipes. They're f*cking baby wipes.
"Douche." Nope, not Kevin from the frat party or the guy who cut you off in traffic the other day - this stuff is supposed to literally flush out all the nasties in a woman's nasties. Because obviously our bodies aren't proficient enough at cleaning themselves out while they're shredding our baby makers from the inside out and spitting the remains out our hoo-has like some military-grade tommy gun on crack. Know what an enema is? Yea, it's that, but for vaginas. I know, gross. Also, this crap was proven unsafe several decades ago, but women still feel the need to try to one-up nature, so here it still sits on the shelf.
"Pantyliners." Exactly as the name suggests, these are just light little "liners" that go in a woman's undies to protect from the extremely light blood flow that tends to happen at the very beginning and very end of a period. I have no joke for these, they're actually pretty handy.
"Tampons." Here's where it starts to get crazy, guys. There are several different types and absorbencies of tampons, and good luck guessing which a woman will need from one period to the next. There's "Light," "Regular," "Overnight," "Heavy," "Sport," "Teen," "Tween," "Super," and "Dear God, is Someone Being Murdered in There?"
"Pads." Now, this one's even worse than tampons, because for some reason someone in the feminine hygiene marketing team thought that giving us 5 billion wing-size choices was helpful somehow. What the f*ck are wings and why do pads need them, you ask? Well, they're these helpful little flaps on the sides of pads that are meant to protect panties from overflow, but are more likely going to twist around and glue themselves to legs and ass cheeks. So then when a woman tries to pull down her panties to use the restroom, the pad itself is either going to dislodge from the panties and hang from her nether regions like the weirdest accessory ever, or she's going to get a nice, unexpected waxing in approximately one square inch of somewhere very sensitive. Yay wings.
Pads also come in dainty choices like, "Light," "Heavy," "Overnight," and "Give up and buy the adult diapers already, lady."
My crotch shouldn't be making crinkling noises as I walk.
So guys, if you ever find yourself having to buy feminine products for your lady, never fear, brave soldier - here's what you do:
- Make her write down what she needs. All of it. Brand name, absorbency, scent, color, street name, whatever.
- Find the nearest lady employee. Look lost and pitiful, but not disgusted or annoyed.
- Hand the lady employee the sheet of paper with all your lady's needs on it, shrug sheepishly, and simply say, "my wife..." Continue looking lost and pitiful.
- Lady employee will do all the work for you, all the while thinking what a total sweetheart you are.
Bam. Done. You're welcome.
The Insanity
Guys, freaking hormones. For real. They're like angry little electric charges that get all fired up and bounce around inside a woman's body, exploding every time they come into contact with each other because they're currently just as confused and unstable as the woman is.
She'll seem bipolar. She'll want to cuddle and she'll tell you what a beautiful, sweet man you are one minute and then slap your hand away and tell you to go eat your Facebook girlfriend's shit the next. (Your Facebook girlfriend is obviously that one random chick who liked that one random status that one random time 3 years ago. Duh.) She'll be chugging Mountain Dew and shoving chocolate cake in her facehole like Honey Boo Boo and then suddenly start bawling because her pants are pinching her bloated tummy and Oh my God, she's so fat and why don't you find her attractive anymore?
Because crazy isn't sexy, and even Heather Graham can't make that shit not look crazy.
She'll develop sudden onset Tourette's over little things like shoes left in the floor and the fact that she has to wait three more weeks to see how the Walking Dead cliffhanger turned out. Mood swings. Weird cravings. Even weirder OCD moments. Guys, I know. I don't even have any sound advice for dealing with it, other than maybe, go fishing or something. Get a hobby. A one week out of the month hobby. You're not getting any for that week, anyway.
The Aftermath
So your lady finally transformed back from the snarling, angry she-beast to the sweet, easy-going Goddess that you originally fell in love with. Congrats! You've survived another month!
Enjoy these next three weeks, guys - you've earned it.
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