My Bloody Showdown With The Menstrual Cup Cult

Has this ever happened to you? You’re out shopping, spa-ing, or dishing over brunch with your girlfriends, when you casually announce that you need to visit the ladies’ room to change your tampon—only to discover that you’re among members of the cup cult. “You’re still using tampons?!” they shriek, proceeding to subject you to a 10-minute lecture on the environmental, health, and financial benefits of using menstrual cups, while you slowly leak onto your chair.

It doesn’t even have to be a friend. They’re everywhere. Online, on the street, in your home, ready to barrel right past your every insistence that menstrual cups just don’t work for you. I first noticed I was being stalked by the cup cult when I looked into my purse while browsing at Buckle with my sister, noticed my supply was depleted, and quietly asked if she had a tampon. I swear, it was a whisper…but across the store, I saw a rack of pre-torn jeans part, framing the face of a hissing woman. She hissed at me. I turned to my sister to ask if she saw what I had seen, but by the time I turned back, the woman was gone.

Later, while reaching for a box of Tampax at Walgreens, I felt an object aggressively hit me on the back of the head. I looked around, and there on the floor was a Lunette of indeterminate freshness. When I looked back up, I was startled to find the face of an entirely different woman on the other side of the shelf, nestled between the condoms and lube. We locked eyes, frozen. After a moment’s hesitation, I made a dash for the register, and so did she. A battle ensued as I doggedly paid for my purchase, engaging her in hand-to-hand combat while struggling with my debit card. With a roundhouse kick, I sent her flying behind the counter into the Nicorette, then slid out the automatic doors, just barely clearing them before they closed.

Soon, it was inescapable. They were in my car, ransacking my glove compartment for the illicit cotton cancer sticks. They were in my home, popping out of potted plants in the bathroom, hiding behind curtains as I walked through the door, knocking the cardboard boxes out of my hands with the sheer force of their warnings about toxic shock syndrome.

I knew something had to be done. I strode out the door toward my car, fought my way into it, and gave chase down the highway, losing them with a sudden swerve onto an off-ramp that would lead me to the only safe place I knew. There, I assembled my weapons. The Playtex Cross-Your-Heart-Bow. The Pearl-handled revolver. The OB-47. When I went back, I would be ready.

It was well past nightfall when I returned. I kicked down the door, then slowly circled the living room. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I taunted, crossbow on my back, rifle at the ready. I spotted one of them crouching behind my couch and leaped into action, handily clearing the back of the sofa and taking her out with a well-aimed super-plus at 100 mph. Soon, they descended upon me. I backed up the staircase, gaining the high ground of my open floor plan.

I had them right where I wanted them.

It was a haze of screaming, crying, cramping, and most of all, rivers of red flowing across my reclaimed hardwoods. Their Diva shields were no match for my stringed projectiles. When the fuzz cleared, all that was left of them was the buckets of blood that I easily wiped up with a few Kotex I keep around for especially heavy days. They’ll never bother me again, you can count on that. They’ll never bother me again.

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