It’s a bullshit war that isn’t even properly declared. It’s an ambush, and girls spend seven stupid days launching tiny cotton missiles into their vaginas. The only way it makes sense is if they were foolishly straddling the loaded barrel of a shotgun and it went off. At least there would be someone to blame. And possibly sue.
But no, it’s just the period terrorists winning. The nice vagina we know and love turns on us every month, and holds our sex life hostage while we hunker down in the tampon trenches prepared to eat or kill anything that crosses our path.
It’s not a great week for us. We know it’s difficult on guys, too. We understand you’re waiting patiently for the triumphant news that the carnage has stopped. You’re ready to celebrate that victory with sex. We want to celebrate it also. With a sterilization chamber, two cups of Clorox and new panties.
Once we’re convinced the enemy has retreated and returned our fun vagina to us, we’d like to have sex with you. Please make us a civilized cocktail, and tell us we’re pretty.
We’ll let you know when the border is safe to cross.