My Pussy Has Higher Standards Than the UN

A foreign policy guide for when your genitals are more ethically consistent than global governance.

If the United Nations had pussy standards, global peace might’ve been achieved in 2006. The UN lets literal war criminals headline summits. I won’t let a man in my flat if his voicenote starts with “hey lol.” You think dinner and eye contact entitle you to entry? No sir. This is not a cultural exchange programme. This is a fortress. A no-fly zone for emotional toddlers and anyone who’s ever said “k” in lowercase. You don’t just get access. You apply, you wait, and even then — you might get sanctioned on arrival if the vibes are off or your Spotify Wrapped says too much about your inner fascist.

Unlike the UN, I don’t run a "reflective period" before reauthorising access. I run permanent embargoes. Men don’t get unblocked, they get archived. You violate a treaty once, you’re out. No negotiations. No fake neutrality. No quietly reinstated contact because you said “hope you’re well” six months later like that erases the crime scene. Meanwhile, the UN lets entire governments commit atrocities and still makes them keynote speakers at climate week. So, to clarify the baseline:

The Pussy Council has convened. The verdict is in. Here’s a non-exhaustive list of offences that will get you blocked at the border:

• Said “devil’s advocate” in any conversation involving rape, race, or rights

• Clapped during a Jordan Peterson video

• Has ever started a sentence with “not all men” unironically

• Wore shoes in my bed

• Once “forgot” the age of consent (???)

• Referred to sex as “smashing”

• Texted “u up?” like it was a diplomatic request instead of a biological alert

• Described women as “females”

• Used “chivalry” and “friendzone” in the same breath

Sanctions here aren’t symbolic. They’re structural. Your number isn’t just blocked: it’s been deleted, reported, and added to a group chat titled “Do Not Fuck.” If the UN had my standards, the world would be a safer place and half of NATO would be in therapy.

Now. The UN loves to talk about structure. Geneva Conventions. Humanitarian codes. Conflict resolution frameworks. So does my vagina. And yet somehow, the UN is worse at enforcement. They’ve got clauses. I’ve got standards. They host conferences. I enforce boundaries. Their track record includes ignoring genocides, enabling abuse, and redefining “peacekeeping” as “vibe supervision.” Mine includes strong exits, well-laundered bedding, and a blocklist longer than the Book of Revelation.

Here’s a quick UN highlight reel, or as I like to call it: “Why My Pussy Has More Integrity Than Global Governance.”

• Knowingly ignored reports of UN peacekeepers raping children in the Central African Republic, Haiti, Congo, and more

• Let Saudi Arabia chair the Human Rights Council while publicly executing women for witchcraft

• Issued over 60 resolutions condemning Israel’s illegal occupation... and did absolutely nothing to enforce them

• Allowed Russia to retain veto power after invading Crimea, bombing Syria, and annexing territory like it’s a toxic ex that won’t stop showing up at the group chat

• Gave Myanmar military junta a platform after they orchestrated a genocide against the Rohingya

• Refused to take real action on climate change while holding summits in five-star hotels where fossil fuel lobbyists outnumbered scientists

• Let Iran serve on the UN’s Commission on the Status of Women while sentencing protestors to death for taking off their headscarves

• Sat silent during the Rwandan genocide because no one wanted to “interfere with sovereignty”

• Regularly hosts human rights panels where countries with active slave markets get to weigh in on “moral leadership”

• Allowed corporations to have observer status at COP summits while Indigenous people were excluded from the table

• Never enforced international rape laws in war zones, just drafted them and hoped the patriarchy self-corrected

Meanwhile, I block someone for calling me "mami" unprompted and I’m the tyrant? No. I’m just efficient. The Pussy Council enforces actual boundaries. We have standards. We don’t let known violators sit in the room and call it “dialogue.” We don’t issue condemnations without action. We absolutely don’t put war criminals on the guest list. Replace the UN with the Pussy Council immediately. We’ll get more done in one menstrual cycle than they’ve managed since 1945.

The UN Security Council runs on veto power — five countries who can shut down global action with one dramatic “no.” That’s China, the US, the UK, Russia, and France. Sounds a lot like dating. Except when I say no, I mean it. Men respond to a boundary like it’s a Sudoku. You say “I’m not in the mood” and suddenly they’ve got a scented candle and an emotional therapy session about their inner child. The UN doesn’t act because of vetoes. Men don’t stop because of ego. The only thing more ignored than a UN resolution is a woman’s no. At least the UN pretends to read the minutes first.

Peacekeeping, in theory, is noble. In reality, it’s passive-aggressive loitering in a flak jacket. The UN sends troops to monitor violence, not stop it — which is exactly how a man ends up on your sofa at midnight saying “I just want to talk” while trauma-harvesting your energy and rinsing your olives. UN peacekeepers have been caught assaulting women and children under the banner of humanitarian aid. Similarly, he shows up with Malbec and a playlist, then delivers PTSD with a smirk and leaves with your lighter. They do not bring peace. They bring presence and press coverage. Real peacekeeping would involve cleaning up after themselves and apologising like an adult. But like the UN, they bring nothing but vibes and a toothbrush they left last time.

The neutrality clause is the UN’s biggest excuse for cowardice. “We don’t take sides.” But you do. You always do. Usually with the side holding oil, arms, or a cheque. Men use the same tactic. They don’t call out their friends, but they’ll repost feminism on Instagram and call it progress. If your mate makes rape jokes and your contribution is “mad ting lol,” you’re not neutral. You’re enabling. You can’t claim moral ground when you’re hiding behind the sofa. Neutrality isn’t brave. It’s branding for men who still say “triggered” as an insult but cry when you don’t reply in five minutes.

Here’s the truth. My foreign policy has boundaries. Theirs has PR. The US funds bombings and calls it freedom. The UK writes think pieces about democracy while hoarding colonial loot. Men will buy you a Negroni and think it counts as reparations. You don’t get access to my sovereign state because you once dated a bisexual and follow Florence Given. Entry requires evidence. I want references. Case studies. Peace records. The bare minimum is: emotional fluency, decent hygiene, and a working knowledge of the clitoris. If you can’t meet those requirements, this is not a visa. This is deportation.

The UN issues vague condemnations and calls it justice. I issue firm boundaries and get called “intense.” Funny how that works. This is not a democracy. This is a one-body nation-state with standards, sanctions, and a tight skincare regime. You don’t get access because you’re tall and said “I respect women.” You get access because you’ve done the internal peacekeeping, cleared your emotional landmines, and remembered to floss.

Unlike the UN, I don’t wait for consensus.

I strike fast, I enforce policy, and I follow up.

The pussy is not neutral ground. It is sacred territory.

And until the UN learns to enforce human rights and wash their hands properly, I’ll stick with my foreign office.