There’s a War on Women and Apparently I’m Not Helping

PG gun

I’m naked. I’m also standing in my kitchen, eating a chicken taco at three in the afternoon when I hear someone bang on my front door. She shouts through the window, “There’s a war on women!”

I hear “war” and I rush to the door – no time for clothes. I should mention, I’m not naked by accident. No, I’m unemployed. Which means I spend about 75% of the day naked as the day I was born, less the placenta and blood and whatever else comes on a newborn.

I open the door and standing before me is a girl with a clipboard. She’s wearing a purple shirt that reads: PLANNED PARENTHOOD.

yo apoyo

“Tell me more about this war. What can I do?” I ask.

She tells me that our male driven society has objectified women since the beginning of time. Sure, for a while there women had some rights and good things were happening, but we’ve regressed and now we must stand up against very old and largely biologically illiterate men who want to repossess women’s bodies as if they were defaulted on mortgages.

“I’m not sure I follow the analogy.”

“Forget the analogy,” she says. “I was improvising. From now on I’ll stick to the script.”

Her ability to maintain eye contact is incredible. For a second there, I forget that I’m exposed and simply enjoy a breeze I’ve seldom felt.

“What can I do? Volunteer? Sign a petition? I never sign anything, but I love your cause. In fact, I’ve spent most of my adult life doing what William Faulkner referred to as killing my little darlings. Of course he was talking about something else entirely, but for the sake of this conversation…”

“That’s perverse and offensive,” she says.

“Hey, listen, I’m just trying to level with you.”

“By level, do you mean drop down to my level because I’m a woman?”

“It’s just an expression, but for your sake, no. I’m trying to reach the great height that you reside at with all other women so I can help your cause.”

“We are not victims,” she says, pointing a finger at my chest.

“Never said you were. Like I said, big fan. Would love to help.” I reach for her clipboard, “Where do I sign?”

“We’re collecting donations today. There’s nothing to sign. War is expensive. Ask the President.”

“Ah, donations,” I slap my own ass, where my wallet would be if I was wearing pants. “See while I’d love to help you, you’ll notice that I’m home on a Wednesday at three o’clock. I’m here because I don’t have a job. Ergo, I don’t have any money to contribute.”

“That’s a lot of Latin for a guy who doesn’t have a job.”

“It was one word,” I said. “I’m not even sure if I used it correctly.”

She steps up and we’re toe-to-toe. The contact is slightly unsettling and if she’s not eighteen, probably illegal. “You fucking LINO.”

“Lino?”

“Liberal in name only,” she scoffs. “I know your type. I can spot you from a mile away. You hate women, ethnically diverse people, the continent of Africa. You even have the gall to hate poor people from your glorious mansion up in the hills.”

“Mansion? This place is like 500 square feet, and it’s a rental. And I’m unemployed. My straights are dire. I’m living in squalor. Want to see my bank account?”

“I’ve wasted enough time here. I don’t want anymore of your Hobby Lobby breath on me.” She walks away and I remember I’m naked so I stay put.

But I call after her, “Okay, not part of the Hobby Lobby. That said, still a big fan of your organization!”

“Fuck you, Johnny Tea Party. You nephew of some oil baron who hunts gay people for sport!”

“My uncle is gay.”

“Sure he is.” She spits on my glorious 500 square foot, rental mansion in the hills then skips off, probably back to the eleventh grade.

“Have a great day!”

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