The Little Red Hen Answers the Obamacare Sex Questionnaire
Dr. Ruth Westhenner’s medical office
Dr. Ruth Westhenner
The Little Red Hen
Nurse Kinsey: Welcome Ms. Hen, just sit down here while I get your vitals. Now, what brings you to Dr. Westhenner’s office?
Little Red Hen: Oh, I’m getting on in years you know. I just need a little check up, to make sure the old ticker is tickin’, and whatnot.
NK: I see. Alrighty. It looks like your blood pressure is normal, heart rate is good, your wattle looks nice and pink, your comb is perky, eyes clear. You seem to be in excellent health for a chicken of your age!
RH: I am indeed! Clean living. Life on the farm has kept me fit. Are we finished?
NK: Not yet. I will have to ask you a few questions before you go, just to make sure that, well, that you’re doing everything you’re supposed to be doing.
RH: buuuuugaaaawk, cluck, cluck. Hmm, well, nothing has changed, you know. I’ still go poop every day, my eggs are perfectly oblate and shiny white, I don’t smoke, don’t drink, cuss only when necessary, and I don’t spit in public. I feel fine, I sleep fine, I digest my corn just fine, so what’s to know? Can I go now?
NK: This will only take a moment. This questionnaire is required by the government, you know. If you want to make the president happy, you will answer truthfully. What is your profession?
RH: I’m a farmer, landowner, industrialist, baker and psychotherapist, and I really don’t give a bugaaawwwk what the president thinks. I don’t gives a pigs ass about making him happy. I just want to be be left the hell alone to work my farm and carry on my practice. Are we done?
NK: Question number one: What are you wearing?
RH: Bugaaawk? Feathers of a generally carmine hue. Who gives a flying bugawk what I’m wearing? I’m an astronaut and I’m wearing a frigging pressure suit! You’re making this up, aren’t you?
NK: Ahem, I’m afraid not, Ms. Hen…
RH: MRS. Hen, MRS.!
NK: Mrs. Hen, I have to ask you these questions or I could be prosecuted, fined, and put in jail. Okay, question number two. How long, generally, do you think sex should last?
RH: As long as it takes! What the bugaaawwwk is wrong with you? This is sick. I’m leaving!
Dr. Ruth Westhenner: (appearing at the door of the examination room) Is there a problem Ms. Hen?
RH: Mrs. Hen. MRS. HEN! Yes, there’s a problem! You’re little pervert nurse here is asking me some sicko crap and I have no idea why I’m still here!
DRW: Calm down, Mrs. Hen, these questions are required by the new healthcare law, you know. It’s for your own good. Well then, carry on Nurse Kinsey.
NK: Question three: How many partners do you have sex with?
RH: What the bugaaaawwwk? Do you mean that in the plural? What the hell is wrong with you?
NK: Ms…er, Mrs. Hen, the government just wants to know….
RH: Okay! You really wanna know about my sex partner? PARTNER! In the singular! I married Rhode Island Red in 1943. My goodness, what a beautiful young rooster he was! He worked the farm next to mine. Grew barley and oats. We fell in love. He was a bird of honor, and we didn’t have sex, NOT EVEN ONCE, until our glorious wedding night. My beautiful husband, Red, as I called him, went off to fight the war and didn’t get home until 1946! And you wanna know what? I was faithful to him the whole time he was gone. And he was faithful to me. Oh, now there were temptations indeed. Those French Alsatian hens wanted Red. But he didn’t give in. He knew that he had a hard-working, faithful, devoted, CHASTE, hen waiting for him in his coop here at home.
NK: Oh, Mrs. Hen…that’s just beautiful.
RH: When he returned after the war, we combined our farms, expanded the bakery and then raised dozens–maybe hundreds of chicks. It’s easy to lose count you know. Hehehe. But Rhode Island Red, that magnificent rooster, was the only bird I ever made love to. Then I lost him back in ’84. An unfortunate grain elevator accident. But you see, we were married, lovers for life, and sweethearts forever. Get it, girlie? So where the hell you get the notion that someone could have sex partnersssssssss, in the plural and apparently simultaneously, is beyond my chicken comprehension. I don’t understand how people can be so, so…animalistic.
NK: Well, Mrs. Hen, I just graduated from nursing school two years ago, and they don’t teach anything about being married, or just having sex with the person you’re married to. I mean, nobody talks about such things. They taught me about putting rubbers on cucumbers, and abortions, and how to have sex with boys, girls, toys, and myself, but this marriage and faithfulness thing, well, that’s new to me. I suppose I will have to think about that.
RH: I understand little missy. You’ve been cheated by a perverted education system and a sick, sick world. Are we finished?
NK: Just a couple more questions, if you don’t mind. (sheepishly) Ummm, my job kinda depends on it. How many same-sex partners do you have sex with?
RH: What? What the hell? What’s that supposed to mean?
NK: Well, you’re a girl, so how many lesbian lovers do you have…or transgender male lovers who are now females…er, that stuff.
RH: Bugbugbugbugaaaaawwwwwk! BUGBUGBUGBUUUUUUGAAAWWWK! Is everyone out there a freak? Why the hell would anyone ask such a thing? Take my blood pressure now Nurse Kinsey, I bet it’s going through the roof! Look, I’m a normal hen. I married a normal, albeit magnificent, rooster. We had normal sex with each other. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. This same-sex, lesbian, transgender nonsense, do you realize how sick that is? Do you realize how miserable it must make a person to do that kind of stuff. Corn gets stuck in my craw just thinking about it. Tell the president or what-the-hell ever perverts are asking these questions, to bite me. Just bite me.
NK: Perverted? Really? Mrs. Hen, are you a homophobe?
RH: Listen girlie, “phobe” connotates an irrational fear of something. I don’t fear perverts, and frankly I don’t give a cluck about what they do in their own bedrooms, but I’m an honest hen with a duty to protect the mental health of those I serve, and a pervert is a pervert. You can’t have it both ways. Either there is a right way and a wrong way, or no way. If every way is a right way, and there is no wrong, then reality ceases to exist. The laws of nature are suspended, and existence loses its purpose and meaning.
NK: You’re losing me.
RH: Think kid, THINK! We were all created, made by God, according to a set of rules. Those rules dictate function and outcome, the natural order of things. There are aberrations, but they have to be called aberrations–perversions–of that natural order. You cannot make aberrations the rule without destroying the natural order. Without Natural Law, there is no existence. Reality implodes, and we are sucked into a black hole of nihilism.
NK: Wow, is that bad?
RH: I’ll be on my way now.
NK: But Mrs. Hen, there’s one more question. Do you use protection when you have sex?
RH: Sure kid, (Little Red Hen reaches under her wing and unholsters a pistol) I use protection. I have protection on my person at all times. I call it a .357 Magnum. Any more questions?
RH: Then I’ll be on my way. Give Dr. Ruth Westhenner my best and tell the president to go cluck himself.
by Marjorie Haun 11/4/13