So I have finally decided to quit my education, settle down and find a man with a house and a kitchen for me to make sandwiches in. I know, you all have been begging me to shut up since I’ve joined The Post, and you’re finally getting your wish. This will be the last satire I will ever write, because I am a new woman.

“What brought this on?” my loyal readers must be wondering. Oh, nothing, nothing, just an epiphany. An epiphany that has absolutely NOTHING to do with the fact that World War III is about to go down, and with women being equal to men and all, they might get drafted. That didn’t even cross my mind. 

I just realized, you know with the new year and all, that women’s rights are getting kind of out of hand lately. Absolutely ridiculous that women are out here working and going to school and believing themselves to be equal to men. God, it’s about time they put themselves in check, the damned women. 

Speaking of God, what about him? You know, he made the woman in the image of the man. Man came first, Adam, and then secondly and less importantly, Eve, so why are we messing with that? The Bible has never been wrong before.

The thought of a woman fighting in a war is absurd to me, considering how frail and feminine they are. They couldn’t even pick up a gun! The only weapon a woman is capable of wielding is a chef’s knife when she’s making dinner for the husband, and even that gets to be too much for her. 

And the uniforms! Pants? Absolutely not. Not until the military designs a pretty little skirt for me to wear so the Iranians know who they’re killing. And green does not look good on me at all, so unless they change it to pink, I’m straight.

It’s just not feminine to be a soldier. Men were born aggressive and strong, and women are soft and sweet. It’s impossible for a woman to kill, they’re creators of life not destroyers. It’s just science (another thing women don’t understand).

I think I might just have to get hitched and pop out a couple snotty kids real quick and then I’m set, right? No need to worry about getting sent to the Middle East to die, the only near death experience I’ll have is facing Karen at the PTA meetings. 

All this talk about w0nem’s r1tes and imma hurl. For real, I will vomit. What even are those? My small woman brain just doesn’t understand.

We just need to get back in the kitchen, ladies. Stop going to school, stop working, stop wearing those power suits and start making those sandwiches! The ceiling won’t clean itself! We need to remember our true purpose in life, to serve our husbands, not our country.

If big Don really decides to draft women, it doesn’t matter to me. I can’t enlist anyway, I have bone spurs.