Monday, March 2, 2009

A Tribute to That Other Group of Second Class Citizens--Whiners, Oops I Mean, Women


Many years ago some of my writer buddies and I put together STEW--Stories of Tired Emotional Whiners, Oops, I Mean Women (a borderline politically incorrect readers' theatre). We preformed it on college campuses, for First Night celebrations and at private functions. And yes, we even got paid!!!!

In honor of Women's History Month, here is the opening to our performance.

But first...

Imagine the whiners---hot, sexy women, sober for once….delivering the lines with power and authority and of course, perfect timing. 

Picture the hotsexywhiners alternating some lines and joining in on the chorus for others. For the last verse, picture our fingers in the sign of the girl scout oath (even though all of us are far from girl scouts).





If that doesn’t work: pour yourself a drink. Poetry always works better under the influence.


We Are Women

We are mother
daughter
wife
friend
lover

We are nurse
chef
secretary
seamstress
mistress

We are bitch

We are stock broker, ego stroker
Woolite soaker, midnight toker

We are bread baker, xanax taker,
butt shaker, orgasm faker

We are homemaker
home wrecker
homeless
hopeless
lawless
We are braless

We are historical, hysterical, pms-tical

We lack testicles (but not balls)

We are keepers of tradition, the faith,
The books, matched pairs
(and underwear)

We are keeper of fish, puppies, turtles, kitty
Cats (and large rats)


We are Women.


We must stick together

Through all types of weather

We must fight the blues and go in twos.


On my honor, I will try, to go to the john,
accompanied by one or more women, to repair
makeup, fluff hair, and talk about…Hillary Clinton.


For the sake of full disclosure, the original last line was actually Bill Clinton.  But you know, we whiners have come a ways since then, Thank Gloria.



Posted at Humor Blogs.

20 comments:

Kevin John said...

orgasm faker?

No, can't possibly be true. Really.

Chris Wood said...

Some mistake. The poem does not mention booze.

I. Demand. A. Refund.

Cat said...

Normally I don't get poetry, but I so get this. Maybe because I'm all of the above (except stock broker).

Matt-Man said...

I looooove having my "ego" stroked. Cheers Meg!!

Prefers Her Fantasy Life said...

Kevin - You're right. We just put it in their for the rhyme.

Chris - You are apparently not reading between the lines.

Cat - Yep. It's more like sock broker.

Matt-Man - I'm good at that--in this virtual world.

Kay said...

That is sooo awesome!

I wish there were video of y'all doing it on stage.....

Barb said...

Great poem, even lo these many years later

Pearl said...

I'm sorry I missed that performance. Loved the poem -- there's a lot of truth in there!
Pearl

Jeff said...

Seamstress? Really? There still is such a thing?

JD at I Do Things said...

This is awesome. So much better than that stupid Meredith Brook's "I'm a Bitch" song, which was probably copied from this poem.

Prefers Her Fantasy Life said...

Kay - There is. But don't tell anyone.

Barb - Thanks. It stands the test of time. Unfortunately.

Jeff - Seamstress with Safety Pins. Yes, indeed.

JD - Thanks so much. We have a few songs too. Such as "I Know I Have a Big Butt."

The Self-Deprechaun said...

I would like to be a part of this Lilith Fair of sorts. I can do a mean Meredith Brooks, 'I'm a bitch' in karaoke pretty well if that's worth anything.

Prefers Her Fantasy Life said...

Self D-Man - I hear you make one hell of a good wedding invitation as well.

Debbie said...

Great! I loved it.

Suzie said...

I love it can you please put it to music. It would be a great theme song

Prefers Her Fantasy Life said...

Debbie - Thanks. Anything for women.

Suzie - Thanks. This is the unplugged version.

TwoBusy said...

Large rats?

Vodka Mom said...

wait, we have testicles??? I thought those were moles.


huh.

sage said...

You're crazy, but I laughed out loud!

I loved Merida--what a neat city--sadly I'm now back in the States.

bernthis said...

How does one top that? One doesn't. Perfect