You are a hot girl and one day you feel you are sort of sick and nauseated, you are way too tired, your period is late and you wonder what bug you might have caught, your doc just says ‘Congrats!’, you wonder what this disease called ‘congrats’ is (perhaps one new, unknown, and very venereal one), then the unpleasant doc clarifies that you’re pregnant and asks when the wedding will be…
YEAH, NOW YOU DID IT
The hot girl does not even remember who, where and how (that motherfucker!) this happened! Mom and Dad naturally have no clue who their pretty girl is sleeping with, but what is is even worse is that the pretty girl herself cannot exactly remember who she’s been fucking. After a brief criminal investigation, the partial memories of a few besties and an app, the culprit is found.
During the brief but memorable Shakespearean-style drama of “I am pregnant, you are the father…” it becomes clear that he (the culprit) is a profound douche and cannot be trusted to take part in the beautiful medical tragedy that is the modern abortion. I am not going to even bother mentioning the part where he wants to be free, he is not ready, blah blah blah. He is just your garden variety asshole. Frankly, even the coolest dude is not immune to quickly becoming the asshole in this situation. He, however, barely even matters in this profoundly dramatic moment. The only culprit, convict and all-around loser is His Majesty, The Fetus.
The tiny humanoid in the hot girl’s hot insides is barely alive, it is sexless and not even sure that being born is the best decision at this point, and yet he/she/it already has enemies. The huge plot against the little thing’s very existence is one of the widest and wildest modern cold wars – it includes religion, technology, a few declarations and laws on human rights plus two huge armies of philosophizing idiots – the ones for and the ones against this medical tragedy. Basically, the problem happens when The Great Fun from The Great Fucking becomes the very real unhappy embryo that threatens to ruin others’ lives. And pretty soon the future inconvenient bastard (a victim of society) becomes the current dead fetus, a victim of brief pleasure with ‘the asshole’ and efficient medical technology.
THE TECHNOLOGY
Even if we were to compare the female body to a car, abortion (as a technology) is nothing like blowing out the exhaust pipe. Abortion (as a technology) is and remains legalized murder, where the victim doesn’t have the slightest chance for self-defense and protection for the simple reason that someone (usually his/hers/its own mother) has decided that not every embryo can become a human being. The technology is such that the unsuspecting embryo is caught by surprise on the obstetric chair by the vacuum curette dancing on the uterine lining. The vacuum curette itself is that pinnacle of human scientific and technical progress that breaks down the fetus into “fetal parts,” sucks the uterine lining like a powerful vacuum cleaner, and creates the tragic possibility that every subsequent (and now desired) embryo cannot attach to the lining. To ensure no embryonic piece (“fetal part”) remains, a “revision” is done – another scraping, another future problem.
The anesthesia is complete, the duration of the operation – 20 min, hospital stay – 4 hours, cost – from free to very little. Possible complications: perforation of the uterus, retention of fetal parts in the womb, inability to retain a future fetus, bacterial infections.
THE RELIGION
If religion is the opium of the people, then militant fundamentalist opponents of abortion would be the hardcore heroin addicts who constantly explain, with fanatically beady eyes, how The Mother and The Doctor have no right to take away the life of His Majesty, The Embryo. And how only the director of the play – God Almighty – can decide whether this fruit of sinful pleasure should be retained in the sinful female womb. The insane religions’ mistake consists of one small problem: these same people (the opponents of abortion) are also fierce opponents of single mothers, modern marriages, current forms of semi-familial cohabitation, and are especially unhinged opponents of potential bastards. These type of living situations, however, always accompany a woman’s decision to give birth or not to give birth. Diehard fanatics would forbid a woman to have an abortion, but then they would stone her to death for living without a man and giving birth to a bastard.
THE MODERN CYNICISM (of mothers-not-to-be)
The pleasure of sex has never been a reason to give birth to a child. However, in modern societies, the ratio between sex for pleasure and sex for babymaking is arbitrarily approximately 2,987,654 to 3.14 (the figures are inaccurate, but absolutely true). The modern cynicism of the not-wannabe-mother is that she has sex for her absolute and unquestionable pleasure. At a meeting between The Mother and His Majesty, The Embryo, he/she/it would be perplexed: “… And yet, for goodness’ sake, love should be a reason to be born… And, damnit, I would still prefer to be a victim of a broken condom and a future victim of society, but to live my life… Don’t do this, for fuck’s sake, let me live out my life – and don’t, don’t tell me how crappy it might be!”
The modern cynicism of mothers-not-to-be goes so far (due to the persistent lack of actual sex ed) that they don’t think of the religious question of Universal importance: If the Virgin Mary was a modern girl, Joseph a little more jealous, and Jewish doctors charged cheaply – would Christ have been born!?
THE DEAD BASTARDS’ STATISTIC
If they could speak, billions of scraped embryos would scream in displeasure that The Mother and The Doctor have forbidden them to live out on this Earth the lives allotted to them by Fate and The Great Sperm Count of The Father.
When statistics show polar bears losing their habitat, the average citizen freaks out and starts marching, or writing letters to senators, or carries their own bags to the grocer, or stops driving. The statistic of dead bastards, however, doesn’t move anyone.
If tonight you get properly drunk and forget about the condom, and your girlfriend mixes up her period dates in her app or her head, and the evening is going really great for you so that the Great Fucking is in the bag – don’t even try to think about the statistics of dead bastards! Don’t you worry at all! For the sake of your pleasure! They are just dead bastards.
GENOCIDE OR EUTHANASIA
The dead bastards of pleasure, as a population subset, are indeed subject to genocide – but this genocide is OK. Really. This genocide is fully acceptable and framed as unimportant by the modern atheist philosophy that we manage our own lives and random embryos just don’t matter.
Abortion simply cannot have a rational moral standing – but women do it anyway. Despite the underlining sadistic, misanthropic and frankly, pretty criminogenic nature of the process, they do it with ease. Their cruel female explanation is that they do it for good. Their justification and magic word, whether they think of it or not, is euthanasia. A nice, good, quick, easy, dignified, and painless death – help for the incurably ill and severely wounded in order to spare them a more painful end. Maybe, women are right – their bastard will indeed be severely wounded in its future life, unwanted and without a father.
MEN
If you remember the beginning of the play, the director, God Almighty, has created a secondary character called The Great Fucker, The Pussy Conqueror, The Dude Who Won the Uterus Games, the Sperm Number Lottery Player. All the grief a man brings to a woman’s life will be forgiven by the woman, including the abortion he drove her to. Men have nothing to worry about because, by a coincidence of happy circumstances, they don’t have a womb for curettage. They don’t have to care about her (The Woman) either because only and solely she can make the right decision – it’s her unilateral and once-and-for-all decision on embryonic matters.
Nonetheless, there’s one thing men should worry about and they should worry about it a lot! From her uterus The Doctor is not scraping out just anything, but their offspring, their own immortality.
So, men, wise up. And go look for your children.
SO NOW WHAT?
And there we go, on and on, we spin in a circle or maybe the circle spins us. Days, weeks years, sex, curettage, death, regret, fuckthatbastard, women’s rights, men’s rights, life’s rights, drama, spin, more spin, more drama… but I am becoming boring. So fuck off.
PS: I suppose there are also embryos who, realizing what awaits them after they’re born, slip out on their own through the cervix, waving goodbye to the ridiculous human world.