In a continuation of the long, unglamorous history of putting all kinds of unsavory things inside her, my vagina has recently been mulling over the nauseating possible future that would be a life under President Romney. While Mitt “I Just Wanna Buy Guns, Y’all Do What You Want” Romney likes to hop freely between various ideological soapboxes, the rest of his GOPals are not so ambivalent when it comes to their feelings about vaginas. In short, they’re super reckless and need to be overseen and regulated on every front. Especially when they’re doing anything other than making babies. Obviously, this course of thinking isn’t exactly inspiring optimism about the future if little things like bodily autonomy are important to you. This is especially true since a great many vaginas in this country are baby-phobic, and a great many more are opposed to being told what to do by a bunch of peen-wielding suits who don’t appear to know what to do with vaginas legislatively or — one must assume — otherwise.

So my vagina wants to kill Mitt Romney. Whaddaya gonna do? Oppression makes some folks feel a bit stabby, and it seems my lady hole is one of those folks. Honestly, it’s one of the more noble things she has ever been into (she couldn’t talk about anything but those goddamn “Jon Hamm sans underwear” pictures for, like, two weeks; she gets credit for taking a political pause), so I feel like I need to support this. It’s not just for herself and those like her, but for her neighbors to the north, the uterus and ovaries. I hear the Grand Old Pussy-cutors are coming for them too. Fortunately, there are many colorful avenues for our party pockets to choose from when they team up to end Mitt Romney:

Pummel him with our giant, cancerous, excised cervical tumors that we grew because of lack of adequate preventative care. Swallow him with our super dilated cervixes after giving birth to the children we couldn’t prevent getting knocked up with because we couldn’t afford birth control and weren’t allowed to get abortions. Stab him to death with filed down trans-vaginal ultrasound wands, like glimmering shivs of violated rights. Sandpaper his face off with our pubic hair (brutal, 3-days-post-shaving stubble ladies get in there first, and we’ll work our way down the pain scale to the silky, gentle exfoliation of those rocking the Freedom Bush). Suffo-QUEEF-tion (Look, you know that means “suffocation by over-queefing the air around him”. Don’t make me explain gross things). Decapitate him with flying birth control disks, propelled from our vaginas via Super Power Kegels of Death. Seduce him (note: he seems oddly asexual and likely unable to be seduced, so we might have to send in Mila Kunis for this one.) Wear this. Okay, maybe this one won’t kill him, but it’ll really bum him out.

(These are hypothetical murder scenarios, you over-reacting party-poopers. No need to call your lawyer, or Homeland Security, or the butchest sister-wife in your Mormon harem. Seriously, you litigious can’t-take-a-joke-sters really eff up my day.)