The Equal Rights Amendment Does Her First Open Mic Night
How’s everyone doing tonight? It’s great to be here at The Chuckle Patch, D.C.’s second funniest place after Kevin McCarthy’s leadership training sessions.
I’m the Equal Rights Amendment. Maybe you’ve heard of me — I used to be splashed across magazine covers and the chests of empowered, braless women across the country. I was the life of both parties. I couldn’t walk down a congressional aisle without someone trying to ratify me, if you know what I mean.
Congress passed me fifty years ago this month. Fifty! I know, I don’t look it. I work out, I’ve had a few lines taken care of, and I consciously hydrate because the bureaucratic hell I’ve been stuck in for decades is a dry heat.
You may be asking, “Why is this spectacular amendment doing an open mic night?” Well, I’ve got some time on my hands because I’ve got a Schrodinger’s Cat situation at work. Am I or am I not alive? By the way, I don’t enjoy this question. I’ve already almost died on the floor several times.
Here’s the story: After getting out of Congress, I got solid commitments from enough states to put me in the Constitution. And now? Five of them tried to pull out before the deed was complete.
That’s ok. You can boo.
Now the debate is: did they withdraw in time to prevent enshrinement? Considering they used the pullout method, I’m pretty sure I have a few awkward phone calls in my future. It’s like college all over again, only this time involving the National Archivist. No, hold on, actually, it’s exactly like college.
So while I’m waiting for some dudes to decide my fate, I’m crossing items off my bucket list. Last week I went skydiving. Tonight, I’m trying standup. Next week, my plan is to heckle Hobby Lobby about their refusal to cover birth control, which incidentally, I might have prevented.
Funny that they don’t want to cover employees’ contraceptives when “Hobby Lobby” sounds like the name of a sex toy shop.
Am I right? This guy over here knows what I’m talking about.
These days I’m trying affirmations. Does anyone here do that, repeating positive messages to yourself? Here’s mine: I’m brilliant. I’m powerful. I’m helpful. I SHOULD ALREADY BE MAKING THE WORLD A BETTER PLACE BY ENSURING GENDER EQUITY AND GUARDING AGAINST ROLLBACKS OF WOMEN’S RIGHTS. I SHOULD BE SITTING AROUND WITH THE 19TH AMENDMENT WEARING FABULOUS CAFTANS AND TALKING SHIT ABOUT THE 2ND AMENDMENT!
It’s a very relaxing practice. I highly recommend it.
Speaking of messaging, remember Phyllis Schlafly? She made it her life mission to derail me, saying I would lead to gender-neutral bathrooms, same-sex marriage, women in military combat, and people getting abortions when they need one.
Or as I like to call it, 2021.
I would call it 2022, but some states have been pretty busy stripping people of their rights, and it doesn’t look like the majority in the Supreme Court is interested in doing anything other than auditioning for the next Marvel Movie, Spiderman: Far from Reason.
People still talk shit about me. The latest is that I’m too old. Dried up. Past my expiration date. That would make sense if the 27th Amendment wasn’t 202 years old when it was added to the Constitution.
Lucky me! I get to have a biological clock attached to my value!
Same bullshit, different decade.
I was born in 1923, which makes me almost the same age as Chuck Grassley. He’s out there every day getting to do his work, living his best life, making sure none of the rest of us are. Me? I’m shoved in subcommittees, occasionally trotted out, passed around, argued about, then disappeared more times than the McRib. (But I’m just as saucy.)
Still, there’s a lot to be said for being my age. I’m sexier than ever. I get great discounts from AARP. I know who I am, and who I am is someone way too old for Matt Gaetz.
People tell me, slow down! Retire! Nah. There’s too much work left to do, although that work is worth about 80 cents for every dollar a man makes.
I’m going to leave you guys with this: Getting older is great, but my real goal is getting over the Hill.
That’s my time. I’m the ERA, and I’m no joke.