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Some tips for Tony Abbott as he appoints himself Minister of Women For Australia. From me, owner of a vagina.

Updated on September 19, 2013

Tony Abbott, Minister for Women

Tony and his ears are leading the way for women in Australia to go back to the kitchen.
Tony and his ears are leading the way for women in Australia to go back to the kitchen. | Source

Dear Tony Abbott,

Prime Minister of Australia,

Minister For Women

Owner of Penis,

Greetings from Canada.

First off, I hear that congratulations are in order. You won the election. You are officially swinging the biggest dick around. Given the size of your member, I must confess, I was startled to learn that, further, you had appointed yourself as Minister For Women. Whoa, man. Dude. If I hadn’t already been suitably impressed by your obvious Balls Of Steel, this would do it. Taking on your broad shoulders the troubles of the poor womenfolk of your country? Hats off, sir. Hats. Off. Gallantry is alive and well in Australia.

I understand that, as you are actually not in possession of a vagina, being the Minister For Those Who Are (in possession of…huh. Kinda sounds like a crime when you say it that way, but anyhoo), I would like to offer you my support and impart some advice to you on, well, not on being a woman, because your balls are too big for that, obviously, but on how to understand what it is like to be a woman. How to empathize, as it were (but run quick and look that word up in the dictionary. I’ll wait while I watch my stories and eat bon bons) with womankind.

Now Tony – I can call you Tony, can’t I? Calling you Prime Minister Abbot takes too long to type, and the other names I might call you cause red lines to show up on my spell-check seriously, (try typing “Douchetard” into your Word program and see what you come up with), and that really annoys me – I will fully admit that, as a Canadian, I know absolutely nothing about being an Australian, aside from what The Wiggles have taught me. But I am going to go out on a huge limb here (a limb as huge as your dick, and no that joke isn’t dead yet) and assume that I know EXACTLY as much about being an Australian as you know about being a woman, m’kay? So. Here are my Handy Tips For Understanding What It Is Like To Be A Woman:

First off (well, first after giving yourself an immediate pay cut to what a woman makes compared to a man), make sure that you have a nice haircut, because it super important to look good. I’m not sure if you can pull off ‘cute’, but give it a go. Give flirty a whirl. However, be careful not to have too nice a haircut, because if you look too good, people will assume you got to where you are in life only because of your looks. Make sure your suits are professional, but again, make sure you walk that fine line between looking professional enough that people will take you seriously, but not so good that they think you have no brains or are trying to sleep your way to the top ( lol, ikr? I’ve seen your pictures.). And for GOD’S SAKE TONY don’t age. The second you get a wrinkle, the looks people give you will start to change from admiration/interest/respect to concern, pity, annoyance and disgust. So, to sum up. Look good, but not too good. Dress well, but not too well. Freeze dry your face somewhere in your late 20’s or early 30’s.

Okay, so, you are dressed and out the door to work (after first making lunches for yourself, your kids, and your partner. You could leave it up to your kids or partner to make their own lunches, but chances are good those lunches would consist of six cupcakes and a Twizzler, and while by the end of the school year you might get to that point where you will gladly purchase a wide variety of cupcakes just so that you don’t have to fricking deal with school lunches for ONE MORE DAY, at least at the beginning of the year, you have to pretend like you care about your kids’ health. And you can’t have your partner eating out for meals every day, because that gets spendy)(oh, and don’t forget about dropping the kids off at daycare first, and finding out that yesterday? Your little guy stuck his finger up another kids’ nose and made some ‘art’ on the wall with his findings, and other parents are very concerned) FINALLY. While there, you find that an idea you had has been poached by a male colleague, and he is presenting it as his own. Now. Think carefully, Tony. Here are your choices: go along with it, be seen as a team player, and act happy for the dude when he gets a promotion and recognition. OR: speak up for yourself and be seen as a bossy backstabbing bitch that no one wants to work with. Or you can just pretend that you are Julia Gillard, having to deal with Tony Abbott, rolling his eyes at you and checking his watch while you give a speech to parliament. Classy, no (and the whole time, have in the back of your mind the worry that you accidentally locked the cat in the bedroom when you left that morning, and mentally prepare yourself for the ‘gifts’ Kitty might have left you for a AND OH SHIT WAS JOHNNY’S DOCTOR’S APPOINTMENT TODAY?)? See a wrinkle in the mirror on break. Worry.

Now, Tony, don’t get me wrong, I understand that you have a plan, a plan that will see women released from the stress and running around that is A Life Outside Of The Home. In fact, having women in the home seems to be a large part of your economic platform. “What the housewives of Australia need to understand as they do the ironing is that if they get it done commercially it’s going to go up in price and their own power bills when they switch the iron on are going to go up, every year…’ “ That’s what you said, right Tone (have officially decided that two syllables is too much)? So, with great foresight and thoughts only for the happiness of the women whose plight you seek to alleviate, you have decided that if we just stay home, everything will be cool. Our light bills will be lower, and women all over Australia will be free of searching for pesky things like fulfillment as a human being (because as long as we are shooting babies out of our vag, we are fulfilled, right? Unless we are one of those awful women who, for our own convenience – probably so we don’t get fat, right? – have an abortion. Because making that life changing decision about our bodies and our health and our rights is nothing more than a convenience, right Toe (Oops, there goes the ‘n’)? It’s just a thang we do, immediately followed by a date to go out for cocktails with our girlfriends and talk about shoes But as long as we have babies and ironing to do, we will be just a-okay, right? Who could want more than dealing with, literally, other people’s shit and piss all day and being happy and put together when our poor, tired, over-worked and stressed out man comes home [but not until after dinner, because he stopped at the gym first on his way home and had a drink with a {white, because as I understand, you are phasing out other kinds} friend, and is now a little bit annoyed that you and the kids have eaten without him and his meal is cold, but the poor dear perseveres and even microwaves his own plate to warm it up. I could just fucking cry, he is such a gentleman, this can be my Christmas AND birthday present, MAN I am a lucky gal]). Spend weeks planning birthday parties and Christmas gifts for your kids and your husband. Get only macaroni art in return. Act happy. Don’t take any time for yourself – that’s just lazy. Don’t…oh hell, let’s just save me some time and suggest that you go and check out a book from the library on being a housefrau in the 1950’s. So, in your wisdom, you have decided that women will return to the home, thus saving us from the big bad world and seeing the sights and smelling the smells. More importantly, we will make our men feel more manly and like their dicks are as big as their arms (and trust me, I sense this is an issue with you), and if we are at home we will be able to make sure we’ve been saving up energy all day for a little bit of bedroom theatrics (hell, after the microwave thing, IOU one swallow). And here is another tip for you to better understand what it is like to be a woman: always be up for it. You wouldn’t wan to be seen as a with-holding shrew, right? We need to “moderate the thought” that that is our right, correct? But, again, don’t be too up for it, because then your man might be suspicious as to what’s got your motor revving. Don’t be THAT girl. Be up for it and receptive. Don’t initiate. Don’t expect to have a good time yourself. Try and get pregnant – hey, that’ll save money on shoes as you are barefoot in the kitchen, right? Basically, Toe, don’t win. Don’t expect to win. Don’t expect to be treated as having a brain or wants and wishes. Don’t expect to be seen as capable. Then again…:”I think it would be folly to expect that women will ever dominate or even approach equal representation in a large number of areas simply because their aptitudes, abilities and interests are different for physiological reasons’” You said that, Toe. I guess you are not worried at all about women needing to feel equal. In your mind, we are just born to not be equal. It is too much for our delicate systems to handle (I guess we maxed out giving birth, right? After we carried and gave birth to our man’s child – preferably a son, unless I need more hands on deck with the ironing, then a girl will do – we return to being weak. Was it the product of a man’s semen inside of us that made us stronger? Hmmm…) And, as you obliterated the FUCKING MINISTRY OF SCIENCE, I guess you can pretty much control the information that comes out, right?

Oh, deary me, I did get off on a bit of a tangent, didn’t I? I’m sorry, it’s just that even thinking about your throbbing manliness and your desire to do what is best for us little ladies is just too much, it makes my brain overheat. I’m sure you can understand. To recap: Look good but not too good. Be nice and get walked on, be assertive and be a bitch. Work harder for less money. Still do all of the housework and the majority of the dealings with the kids while working at least one job. Serve yourself last at meals so that you make sure your kids and partner are taken care of. Seriously, learn to plaster a fucking smile on your face for macaroni art. Never stop moving, never stop thinking, never stop having things that need to be done (which, by the way, is not going to be helped by being happy little homemakers, just sayin’). Always put yourself last. A candy bar and a handful of cereal scarfed down on the way to the car is a four course meal. Time for yourself is selfish. Conduct yourself accordingly so that a man is not compelled to rape you (because, of course, that is a woman’s fault). Be perfect. Stop dreaming. Ask for nothing. Do for others always. Learn to live on five hours of sleep on a good night. Don’t forget to not age and not to gain weight. Don’t expect to be taken seriously very often. Have your ideas dismissed because you have breasts. Laugh off comments about said breasts, or be seen as a prude with no sense of haha. Act more masculine to be taken seriously. Get called a dyke. Get used to those who don’t have vaginas or wombs (aka: men) telling you what to do with yours, but bite your tongue before you tell them to have a vasectomy or presume to tell them what to do with their bodies and plumbing. Learn to act happy and to be ‘fine’ no matter what is going on, or else people *coughmencough* will assume you are too emotional to be of any use. Worry about soaring daycare costs (because, alas, your family, even with doing their own ironing, cannot afford to be a single income family) and about how you are going to make a go of it when that is where most of your paycheque goes. Pretend for a moment that you are a single mother. Worry EVERY SECOND OF THE DAY. Try to decide which bills are to be paid and which can slide for a bit so that you can pay rent. Wonder if you should have stayed with the abusive bastard, because then at least you would have less money worries. Maybe if you’d been better at ironing, he wouldn’t have hit you and you wouldn’t have had to leave and be sick at the thought of how to feed your kids. Bascically, Toe, don’t be. Just do. But not for yourself (see: selfish).

Every so often, breathe.

Well, while that is by no means an exhaustive list, it gives you a few ideas to think about as you begin your epic journey of leading womankind back through time. Really, man, you’ve (and again, I feel the need to reassure you about this, as you come across as kind of a small, needy man) got some balls.

And now, I shall leave you – I have to feed my kids, because my husband isn’t home. Please feel free to contact me with any questions you might have. I am always happy to chat – I’m a bit of a yappy gal like that.

Best of luck,


p.s.: when my seven year old daughter saw that I was writing to the PM of Australia, she made me promise that I would add a postscript onto this letter, telling you how much she loves Australia (again, The Wiggles). So, this is me keeping my promise. I will, however, point out that I refrained from telling her to thank her lucky stars that she does not live in your country right now.

p.p.s.: I should also mention that my husband is not home yet because he has been gone since March with the army. Hopefully he’ll be home next month. You probably wouldn’t think much of him, though, because he has this crazy notion that I am completely his equal and that our marriage is a partnership, and that he will happily do the ironing and laundry for me as long as I kill bugs and mow the lawn for him. My happiness is of primary concern for him. I guess he just hasn’t contemplated the economic ramifications of that. I’ll be sure to tell him your theories. Not that he’d let me near his uniforms to iron them. But we’ll discuss it. And we’ll laugh. At you. Because it is either that or crying for the women of Australia.


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