The advent of the pill ushered in the women’s liberation movement by allowing women to take control over their fertility. Our bodies, ourselves. Sanger, founder of Planned Parenthood, made the miracle drug a US mainstay and sparked the second wave of feminism in the 1960s, just in time for all that “free” love. How the pill basically works is that it stops ovaries from releasing eggs. Taken correctly, this makes you 99.7% prego-proof.
Feminists are stereotypically regarded as man-eaters, man-haters, ball-busters, dykes, bitches, cunts, because they tend to be strong-willed, outspoken, independent, stubborn, headstrong, etc.
Then how appropriate is it that, when on the pill, sperm devote their entire existence to swimming upstream looking for the holy grail that isn’t even there. It’s like putting a dog on a treadmill for days; it’s not really getting anywhere.
Maybe if those sperm asked for directions they’d know they were on the wrong track. Maybe sympathy is in order- poor sperm running the marathon of their life and no one will get to the finish line. They will all perish in the Sahara environment of my uterus. And it’s not even like a IUD or spermacide where they’ll be immediately disintegrated. Nope, they’re going to die of exhaustion (the dumb ones that don’t try impregnating body cells and such). I bet my eggs are laughing in their ovaries like an all-girl sleepover watching on the big screen.
This puts feminism and gender relations on the most basic and biological of stages, and it’s a comedy alright.