Monday, October 27, 2008

I'm Aborting Right Now

From the National Review, former home of William F. Buckley's son (who was probably told, like Kathleen Parker, that he should have been aborted):
The Palin Trig-ger
Looking behind the hostility.

By Kevin Burke

Some of the very personal and often uncharitable criticism of vice-presidential nominee Sarah Palin and her family may have a relationship to the collective grief, shame, and guilt from personal involvement in the abortion of an unborn child.

Seeing the Palin family, in a very visible public forum, with an uncompromising and public pro life philosophy arouses deeply repressed feelings in post abortive parents, as well as media members, counselors, health care professionals, politicians and others who promote abortion rights, especially the abortion of children with challenges such as Down Syndrome. These powerful repressed feelings of grief, guilt and shame can be deflected from the source of the wound (i.e., abortion) and projected onto an often uncharitable focus upon the trigger of these painful emotions…the Palin family.
This editorial really speaks to my problems because — I gotta be honest — I'm aborting right now. I was gonna kick my girlfriend down the stairs for a quick "Irish miscarriage," but as pithy as it is, it's just not the same. Now, abortion: that's just something my folk do. It's seeped into the language of my daily life. For instance:
Some Girl I Live With: Is this open lemonade carton that's been in here, like, six weeks still good?
Me: Fuck no! Abort it!
I remember moving my friend from one apartment to another, and he had this giant godawful (lol—God doesn't exist, DEAL WITH IT) Ikea dresser. It was heavy and not getting through the narrow hallways of the new apartment. That's when I asked myself what I always ask myself in these situations: "What would an abortionist do?"

Then it hit me.
Me: We gotta partial-birth this sumbitch right here.
Him: Zuh?
Me: Okay, we need to suck out all the contents of this thing and collapse it down to a lighter, more manageable size that will then allow it to pass through the vaginally-thin hallways of this craphole apartment in which you plan to sell drugs and have sex with people of other races.
I knew my friend would see it my way.

I've got lots of other things I love about abortions. I call the garbage disposal in my sink the OldPortion Clinic. My favorite drink is just gin and a peeled roma tomato smashed against the side of a martini glass and dotted with two capers to look like eyes. I call it an Abortini. The first time I heard Obama spent time hanging out with people in college in a group they all called the "Choom Gang," I was excited because I thought they'd named it after the sound one of those cranial-vacuums makes before they deflate the head. When you're at the ATM and making a withdrawal, and the ATM asks what you'd like withdrawn, I think one of the options should be, "The baby in my uterus."

You know, now that I think about it (despite being chiefly attracted to them and their iron buttocks, six-pack abs and the Sun-Maid Raisin-skin quality of that divinely ungainly fleshbag we call the scrotum), the reason I don't have sex with men?—no chance for abortions. If only there were some way to knock up a dude, then punch him in the gut to poop out baby-human eggs and then back over them using the rear camera on my Prius, I'd be having so much homosexual sex right now, it's not even funny.

My favorite part of the Sin of Onan — besides, basically, its being free, low-impact and awesome — is knowing I just Early Aborted something like 20 million people. Fuck, I didn't even give those poor sonsabitches a chance. Think about it: every time I jerk off, that's an overachieving decade of Stalinism served on tissue paper. Actually, now that I'm thinking about it, I'm getting kind of hard. If this keeps up, today's premature death rate is seriously going to be maoing my zedong, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, back to what this Burke choadmaster has to say: he's totally right. Seeing Bristol Palin seriously confuses me. I think about her having an abortion, and I think, "Man, that would just be wrong, because her being pregnant is giving her, like, a fucking shelf up there and"—whoops, there's another decade of gulag-related fatalities cranked out right there.


Sorry, some asshole doctor came up to me and wanted to ask me something, and I'm like, "Hello? I'm on my fuckin iPhone?!?!?"

Anyway, like I was saying, I really hate looking at Bristol Palin because she makes me confused as hell. On the one hand, I'm like, "Girl, your vagina is a cannon that you should use to fire people out of and let the bodies hit the floor, right?" But on the other hand, she's got that natural rackage going on up there, and it fills me with regret.

I think that maybe the trail of abortions I've left in my life's wake like so many Seminole and Choctaw bodies from Florida and Georgia to Oklahoma might have been a mistake. How many fine-ass ladies did I hook up with Elite Boobage via a mixture of my uniquely fertile pre-abortion serum and staunch refusal to practice prophylactic birth control? Maybe I could have been playing with those boobies all this time. On the other hand, I would have had to talk to them again.

I remember one time a girl wanted to repair some burned bridges with me after her abortion, and that's when I looked her in the eye and said, "Thanks, but no thanks." She didn't really get with the program on the abortion thing. Some do, most don't, but when I say it's time to take the beautiful thing we made together and wash it down the garbage disposal, the fact is that I'm not just talking about the baby: I'm talking about the relationship. So sorry, girlfriend, but you just got aborted, too—FROM MY LIFE.

Anyway, like I said, this editorial really stirs some mixed emotions in me. I mean, here I am, just flipping around DailyKos, trying to find the latest congressional race 1,500 miles away from my house, to which I can donate hundreds of dollars I'd normally throw away on truffles for my lunch pastas, and I see a link to this editorial. So I read it. And I'm like, "Yo, Burke? You think maybe you can stop preying on my fears of my sins and shortcomings? I'm just killing some time in the waiting room, trying to get a fuckin' abortion, here."

What? What the fuck is this "Sono Grahams" shit? Do I look like I came here to eat cereal?