Not About Men

I was looking up at a circle of white-masked, white-robed figures. In fact, the entire room seemed to be themed in white. Except for the straps that were holding me to the table.

"W-what's going on?" I stammered groggily. There seemed to be some drugs involved.

"You're hear for your mandatory castration," said ... well, I'll call her a doctor for the sake of argument.

"My ... what?!?" I attempted to scream. But my semi-comatose condition made it more of a belligerent mumble, sounding something like, "Mwvpttt?" Even to me.

"Your mandatory castration," repeated the doctor, not unkindly. "We decided you needed one."

"I didn't decide I needed one!" I protested impotently. Or "Idrbtflbdebub," to be more accurate.

"No, but we did," replied the doctor. "It's our decision."

"Wait a minute," I mumbled. "You're all women, aren't you?"

"Of course," smiled the doctor.

"But you're about to castrate me," I whimpered. "Where are the men? There have to be men involved in a decision like that!"

"It's not about men," replied the doctor sweetly.

"How about anesthesia?" an assistant chipped in. "You want anesthesia? Anesthesia is extra, you know."