Published on: 30 Mar 10:34

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Elissa asks

Want wine. 7 months pregnant.

My answer

We've all been there! Here's what I do. Gatecrash your local church's next major communion-wine booze-up contest clad only in a trenchcoat. Beneath the trenchcoat, strap a colossal anti-tank gun or something to your torso, in such a fashion that it's poking vertically from within the coat and pressing up against the underside of your chin.

Then stagger terrified into the venue's front doors and kick off a horrible panicked screech. Why panicked? I'll get to that in a sec. First, announce that your darling beloved proto-baby has a fierce and insatiable THIRST. He'll do anything for a drinkie-poo. Anything. This little fucker, you inform the regulars whilst patting your tummy, fancies himself the next Al Capone, or Pablo Escobar, or whatever big-time name is wowing today's bad boy in-crowd. He's operating a superbly sophisticated drug-running operation from inside prison. The prison in question is your own womb. Turns out he's amazing at it. You inform the communion-wine regulars that you can't remember the last time you'd had an unbroken night's sleep, what with the hundreds of scruffy drug mules forming an orderly queue threading through your house and up to your vagina, either depositing their latest multi-ton cocaine shipments, or picking up yet another for intestinal transport to the nightclubs of Ibiza.

But you'd be amazed how difficult it is for a seven-month foetus to get hold of decent suds. The inevitable drug-mule queues hunger to placate and appease their juvenile womb-y overlord and proffer much booze from trembly fingers, but their idea of a decent drink is hooch like sulfuric acid. Dip piranhas in it and they'd become bleached skeletons instantly.

No thank you. Your sprog, therefore, has had enough. He's decided it's high time for a night on the town. He wants the best booze. This church's booze. He cares not for decency or societal standards. He has overruled your concerns and pleadings. He called in a few favours with various Mexican cartel militias and yoinked this anti-tank gun and used it to threaten you, and hold you hostage, and pilot his mum, you, like a great fleshy hotel, out the door and into this church.

You plead with the assembled congregation: can't they see this is a matter of life and death? Can't you see this huge fuck-off gun with its huge fuck-off bullets? If they don't let you guzzle their entire stock of communion wine, your seven-month embryo will shoot you, then shoot them.

This explains your horrible panicked screech from earlier. You're a hostage!

Next, squelch the congregations' and priest's inevitable protests that seven-month embryos could not possibly operate an anti-tank gun whilst still inside their mother's womb by having spent the previous six months in a gyno-gym to make your vulva prehensile and indomitable. Naturally your tale of embryonic drug lords is all bullshit, but they don't know that. Use your magnificent prehensile vulva to operate the actual real gun in your possession (how one might gain access to it I'll leave as an exercise for the reader), and blast ballistic chunks off the massive frontal crucifix without which no church is complete, and accompany this with your screams of "You see, you see? He's insane! Do as he says or he'll kill us all!"

The church's members will now supply you with all the communion wine you could ever need. Problem solved.

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