If the words "hamburger-shaped vagina" give you pause, stop reading now. Seriously.
If not, however, perhaps you'll enjoy hearing the saga of writer Johanna Stein's placenta-centric revenge-served cold. Here's a, ahem, taste:
I have a friend, a good friend (who I'll call K) who is sweet and funny and adorable and once took a shit in a box, tied it up with a bow, and gave it to me as a joke. Unlike her, I shit you not.
It was K's birthday, so when she handed me the beautifully wrapped gift the only thing I could think of to say was, "but it's your birthday".
I was shocked. Disgusted. But mostly I was impressed. And ever since that day I have been plotting my revenge. My poo revenge.
And here it is, in Delivery Room 6b, staring me in the face, about to be tossed out like so many pounds of glop.
I imagine how the deed will go down: I will hand K a hefty box tied with ribbon. She will look at it and say, "but you're the new mother…"
It will be sublime.
We won't spoil the outcome, save to say that it's not nearly as gross as placenta smoothie.