Here Are More Reasons Why Girls Should Only Have Anal Sex
After my two-year-old butt sex article went viral recently for some weird, perverted reason, I decided to look it over again. Upon review, I was absolutely horrified. Not because of what I had written, but what I’d forgotten to mention. There are so many better, more obvious reasons why girls should literally only have anal sex and nothing else. I’m sorry for being so neglectful. It was truly an irresponsible disposal on my account, focusing solely on sensory delight and passivity—in reality, there are far more relevant reasons why every female ought to be prohibited from all sexual acts excluding anal intercourse.
They are as follows:
Never mind the purely selfish reasons why you wouldn’t want a human larva ruining your life—let’s look at this from a socio-environmental standpoint. The human population is expected to reach 8 billion by the year 2025. We have no way to feed all of these people, and what would we do with the sewage if we could? Even now, with 7 billion people on Earth, more than 200 million tons of human waste goes untreated every year.
Think about that before you freak out over a little poop on your boyfriend’s peener. It’s a small price to pay for not living a literally shitty existence. Overpopulation is a colossal nightmare that we, as a species, can no longer physically withstand. That is exactly why anal sex is so important.
You can’t grow a baby in your ass, but you can have an orgasm if you try a little.
If girls were to engage only in anal intercourse, there would be fewer humans on Earth, and therefore less resource depletion, and perhaps a better quality of life for the rest of civilization. Only through these swollen, pulsating lips may we still find our planet hospitable. Forget those stupid solar roadways—anal sex can single-handedly lead us toward a future of sustainability and hope.
My Return to Weed After Years of Being a Bourgeois Suburban Mom
On the first night of my return to smoking pot, after the kids are asleep, my husband tells me, “I think you’re good; you can probably stop now.” I look down and find I’ve blown through half the joint I’ve been nervously puffing at like a cigarette. I’m annoyed with him for micromanaging me because I am not at all stoned—and then, of course, I am in an instant waaaaaayyyyy toooooooo stoned and grateful for his kindness in a mute, fairly immobile way.
As I wonder (fuzzily, not entirely silently) at the extreme potency of the marijuana I have just smoked, I notice that the remote I’m holding is pointed at the Amazon on Demand screen, and it’s frankly terrifying to realize that inside the neon-bright little boxes—boxes that move, to my awe and horror—are hundreds of movies, and the whole thing is organized in a way that I cannot parse but that I know is based on my preferences. MACHINE, MY PREFERENCE IS TO HAVE ONE PERFECT MOVIE ON THIS TV. I don’t want to look at hundreds of titles, many of which are cartoons or shows my children like, which is sending me into a guilty, bad-mothering place. (NO, I DO NOT WANT TO WATCH DORA THE EXPLORER, AMAZON, YOU GUILT-TRIPPING ASSHOLE!)
“I’m kinda lost here,” I mumble to my husband. He thinks I’m joking. I toss the remote at him, hunch further into the couch, and wait for my magic movie to appear on the magic box. Mad Men! Over the next week, as I watch my regular shows stoned, I’ll come to understand how wooden and artificial most dialogue is, but Mad Men really holds up and deepens, you guys! I audibly groan during instances of sexism, my husband looks over at me, and I feel a little self-conscious because I think I am mouth breathing. The pauses are so pregnant on this show! About halfway through the episode, I look down at the Google doc I have open and realize there is no reason for me to be recapping and analyzing the show as I am, and also that I am not good at typing while stoned.