Disclaimer: What you’re about to read is really, really gross. If you’re a weak-stomached pansy-ass, this is about as far as we recommend you go. Better luck next week, pansies-ass-pansies. You’ll have to get your superfuntimes another day.

So here goes. The other day, R and R went to the gym as they occasionally do after apple festivals, and they were feeling pretty good. One R took to the treadmill while the other R mounted her usual weird-elliptical-treadmill-hybrid-thing and began to ...

R: WORK IT!

… Yeah. So she was working it when she started to notice that something felt weird. And much to her dismay, upon closer inspection she discovered something horrific: a spot of pink lace peeking out from beyond her tank top. Yes, she had forgotten to change into a sports bra. Let’s just say this resulted in a lot of ... movement. Awkward, uncomfortable movement.

R: Boobs akimbo.

And in her floppy, sweaty state, much unwanted attention. And she couldn’t help but think, “This would never happen if I were a dude.” Indeed, as dudes generally don’t wear sports bras (and those who need to generally don’t play much “sports”).

In fact, there are a lot of things that would never happen if us R’s were dudes. The fairer and wiser sex, to which we belong, though both fairer and wiser, is subject to a grossly inordinate number of maintenance requirements and standards of hygiene! And it sucks!

First of all, boobs are mad heavy. So heavy, in fact, that we can predict with a great degree of certainty that we will both be experiencing severe back problems in the years to come. And this is on top of our scoliosis(es). Sure they look fantastical now but gravity’s got a hold on everything. Particularly old ladies’ boobs.

R: OLD BOOBS AKIMBO!

Be wary, because in every woman’s life there’s a point of no return when even the most wondrous of wonder bras will leave you stuffing them in your handbag just to keep them from dragging on the ground behind you.

R: Too far.

But we digress.

R: Let's continue to complain!

Far more expensive, time consuming and ubiquitous is the larger issue of body hair. You silly apes must think it’s so easy for us to maintain our hairlessness. Well what do you know you silly apes? You have hair on everything! Us ladies have to constantly shave it, pluck it and rip it out with hot wax or else be branded as yucky and unwomanly. R even has to tolerate her manfriend’s near perpetual beard-mustache-combo-job but he hardly EVER tolerates her beard, or mustache!

R: Oh the hypocrisy!

Yeah, one could argue that we could just let the grass grow. We know the usual feminist critique would say that we’re just subscribing to the male standard of beauty. But the truth is that these are cultural standards dating back at least as far as ANCIENT EGYPT. With the exception of the politically, educationally and hygienically icky Middle Ages, women of most eras have used hair-removal to identify themselves as feminine. It’s true: some women are born hairless, but most have hairlessness thrust upon them.

Even as women of the 21st century, we’re still subjected to a clear income disparity, limited upward mobility in the workplace, rape-iness, icky touching and constant attacks on our sexual freedom. Our own fucking uteruses are built as biological coliseums where the strongest of multiple spermiators (sperm + gladiators, obvs) fight to the death. Isn’t it enough already? God? Science? Darwin? Anybody?

Clearly not: because even after we graduate, find jobs, find partners, find lovers and eventually get preggers — then we can’t drink, or smoke, or eat sushi FOR NINE MONTHS. But it’s not just that, because even after all the vomiting and gasiness and stretch marks and sobriety, God/Science/Darwin has yet another trick up “it’s” sleeve: your vagina explodes, and then you’re never gonna guess what happens: YOU POOP. EVERYBODY POOPS. IN A BED. IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. IN FRONT OF DOCTORS. IN FRONT OF YOUR WHOLE FAMILY. You poop, and your vagina will never be the same. And yet women are disparaged if they choose not to have what men (those without vaginas) and “collaborators” (those with already-ruined vaginas) call a “natural birth?” Come. The fuck. On.

R: Amen for birth control.

R: And adoption!

R: And surrogacy!

We admit there are a few perks to womanhood. For example, when dudes wear jewelry they look like douchebags! And they can’t cover their pimples with makeup! Ha! So boo-hoo for you hombres. But we poop. So you still win.

Stay tuned next time for more secrets!