FACT: One In Four Fucktards Will Misread This Blog

FACT: One in four women can misread a traditional pregnancy test.

FACT: One in four women is fucktarded.

Did you pee on the box and not the stick? Do you suffer from an undiagnosed visual impairment that challenges the discernment of single from double lines? Or, if you ponied up the big bucks for the "fancy" digital test that actually spells out in big letters YES or NO, did the test malfunction and burp up a maddening NESYO?

Orrrrrrr is one in four women simply fucktarded?

"What the... Two lines?! What the First Response does that mean? I know the instructions say it means that, sure as sugar, I'm sweet sixteen and knocked-up like a foul ball into the left field bleachers, but that can't be right! I'm not pregnant! Yes, I had unprotected sex 57 times last month—58 if you count Bobby which I don't—but I'm not pregnant! This test is wrong. Oh, I'm so confused! It says right here: Clearblue Easy! I don't... I do not find this test neither clear nor easy!"

What I'm thinkin' is this: one in four women is not fucktarded; rather, the keyword, "traditional," is overlooked. "Traditional" pregnancy tests make me think of the chemistry sets women of my mother's generation were made to use, which were veritable bathroom-based science experiments. Women were not only likely to misread said results, but might well blow up the house in the process.

The e.p.t test of 1978 was described to the public in Mademoiselle: “For your $10,” the article notes, “you get pre-measured ingredients consisting of a vial of purified water, a test tube containing, among other things, sheep red blood cells…as well as a medicine dropper and clear plastic support for the test tube, with an angled mirror at the bottom.” The test took two hours, and was more accurate for positive results (97%) than for negative (80%). A Thin Blue Line: The History of the Pregnancy Test Kit

Yeah, I think I'd misread those results, too. Because it's difficult to read what's been blasted clear across town, shattered into slivered smithereens, 'cause that's what happens when you load vials, tubes, mirrors and THE SACRIFICIAL BLOOD OF INNOCENT SHEEP into a shoulder-mounted grenade launcher, blow it sky-high and ain't that some sweet emotion right there, honey! Call that baby airborne, Air Jordan, call you an Aerosmith as you walk this way singin', "Can't catch me 'cause the rabbit done died!"

Yes it did!

And so did the sheep!

By the bye: Why is a man in a collared neckline siftering and inspecting my at-home urine?

Perhaps why one in four "traditional" test results were misread...

If I'm looking too deeply into the clear blue (how unlike me), then I'll be the first to say it...again: One in four women is fucktarded. Then again, I took me lots o' literary theory and criticism classes and a few courses on pop culture, and minored me a wee degree in Women's Studies. I likes to analyze. And methinks the word "traditional" be a clever ploy, one meant to snooker us into believing 25% of all women are fucktarded, incapable of properly discerning between one line and two, the words YES and NO.

Why am I writing about this today? Because of my impending hysterectomy? Or is it due to this morning's burst of the ovary? (Yes, say it with me, friends: "Again?") Blame the freakin', flappin', what-the-happenin', "Watch me grow a beard riiiiiiight...now!" hormones?

Nope. Well, maybe a little bit, okay, but not really.

FACT: I see that commercial constantly and every time think, "Then one in four women is fucktarded. I really need to write about that..."

FACT: I had to pee on a stick today! Ha HA! Didn't see THAT one comin', did ya'? But not an at-home pregnancy test stick. (Duh. That would be funny though. "So I'll talk to you later. I'm headin' out to buy a box of pregnancy tests. Just for funsies. Hey, man—you never know! Look at Mary Mother of Jesus! I ain't sayin' I'm, like, a virgin. I'm just sayin' The Holy Spirit works in mysterious ways!")

Back to reality...

Checking to make sure I haven't become diabetic in the wake of all of this hormonal hell. The extreme weight loss despite gorging is more than a little worrisome, so I peed on a strip. I am not diabetic. Which blew my mind like a traditional pregnancy test from a grenade launcher because, sweet Mary Mother of Jesus, I got every other auto-immune disease known to the medical world! FACT!

But NOT diabetes. FACT.

Unless I misread the test results...

FACT: No rabbits nor sheep were killed in the making of this blog.

FACT: Okay—one in four rabbits and 25% of all sheep used in the making of this blog were, in fact, killed.

They pissed me off.