What year is this? Who’s the president? I feel like I have been gone for decades! *Emerges from hole in ground squinting eyes from the glare of the sun.* What should we talk about? I know, how about my freaking out every year when my doctor wants to get up in my lady garden? How ’bout that?
Have you ever seen any old, black and white movies? Preferably one that takes place in the dust bowl or depression. There’s always a point during any of them that a storm breaks out, and someone has to go check on the horse in their tiny ass barn. (Now that I think about it, in those movies there’s always a kid holding a can of beans and wearing a hat that’s too big for him… I’m sure that’s a metaphor for something to do with my vagina too. I’ll work on it.) Anyhow, the horse was always going bat shit crazy when the storm blows through and they have to send in some dusty horse whispering dude to calm her.
Whoa girl, whoa… *holds out an apple or a carrot* there, there…
In this scenario, I am the horse… and the gynecologist is the horse whisperer. I suppose also in this scenario, the dust bowl could be my vagina, but that part isn’t really important.
I hate going to the doctor. I’m always afraid they’re going to tell me I have some disease, pull out a lego or a quarter that’s been logged in my vagina for 30 years, or a multitude of other embarrassing things like onset nervous or frightful farting- by me or anyone in the room really. Trust me, it’s a thing, I Google. Honestly, I’m only going to the doc regularly for birth control so that I can have the complexion of a 14 year old girl – so I don’t so much care about their “details.” I definitely don’t care for them launching things into my “dust bowl.” I definitely have to restrain from laughing at the sight of two people’s faces huddled over my junk with a test tube. I guess the good thing is, based on their facial expressions my “muffin” is pretty run of the mill. In fact it may be so commonplace that it blends into it’s environment like a chameleon.
Which I’m fine with because I long worried I had one of those rogue shelter vaginas that looks sweet and cuddly when it’s caged but let that bitch out and she’ll eat your face off.
After I was done being probed and the doctor played on my boobies like she was scratchin’ a Daft Punk record at a dance club, they sent me down a long narrow ultra violet rayed hallway to pee in a cup. “Label it, urinate and then lock the cup in the tiny pass-through door.” This time, the person on the other side opened their side of the “confessional” before I had time to set my pee cup down and close my side. It startled me so much that I dropped my cup of magic juice and it magic rained a 3-7 pee drops. I started talking in a robot voice as I closed the door to my wrist and entertained them with my Thing -like hand blindly blotting urine like a crack head. I swear they planned that shit. *Hears patient opening tiny door, wait for it… PULL!*
What is the point of all of this? = I HATE GOING TO THE DOCTOR! Why are there all those codes and swabs and surprise shot disposal units?! Why are there so many art posters about veins and awol ovaries?! Why don’t they just get some of those 3d posters and a ficus?! Why won’t they just tell me I’m not dying on my answering machine instead of being like “This is about your vagina…ah…. you better call us back.” Then they’re like “Oh you’re fine, I was just trying to tie my shoes at the time I left you the voicemail.” SUCK IT! Ugh! Make a scan robot already so I can just walk through it like at the airport and it gives a little green light or the ick face. This shit is stressing me out! Also, I want you doctors to bring back the toy chest and lollipops for the end. FOR ALL PEOPLE! Not just the kids, ya bastids! THIS IS AMERICA! Just like our forefathers said: “GIVE ME LIBERTY, OR GIVE ME SCRATCH N SNIFF STICKERS WHEN YOU PROBE MY VAGINA!”