See this mass of cells? It could be a boy–a man!–one day./Image: Licensed Adobe stock, kishivan.
How are we doing, my questioning, conservative readers?
A fact I hope is abundantly clear to you at this point–in fact, Alt-abundantly clear–is that we right-wingers hate kids. Unless they’re fetuses, of course! Teenagers being mowed down on city streets and in suburban schools–who needs ’em! Brown kids being ripped from their wailing mothers’ arms–dark hair, don’t care! But a fetus–now there’s a clump of cells that has the potential to be a heterosexual non-Jewish white boy. Well, at least up to a certain point when ethnicity, sexuality, and white nationality develop. Then, we’ll pick and choose who to prop up and who to delegitimize. But until then, we’ll Operation Rescue these weirdly alien-like creatures called fetuses like an army of F—–d Up First Responders.
That Useless Piece of Skin
No, I speak not of a foreskin on a weenis–that would be patriarchal heresy! I speak of that useless piece of skin around a twat, as the old joke goes: a woman. She’s the unfortunately-penis-free sort-of-resembles-a-human vessel that carries the holy hope we must always hold out, that every human life has the potential to turn into the most inhuman of God’s creatures: a Trump supporter. That’s why we here at Spread Your Right Wings (SYRW) started the Fantastic Fetus™ campaign, to discourage Nasty Women from exercising agency over their own bodies once a testicular tadpole (which is white, by the by, proving that whiteness is essential and basic, brownness and blackness abnormal aberrations) has infested, as our leader, President Donald Trump would say, her body. Lest you be thinking of dilating-and-curating that womanly womb of yours, read on.
Dear Kaylee,
I’m a Republic-slut from the South, and got knocked up. It will literally, completely, and in every conceivable way ruin my life with no hope of ever recovering, and also adding a life to the ruined planet, which I will then ruin, in turn, because I’ll have no way to earn a decent living, no health care, and almost no education because I live in a backward nation shrinking the social safety net by cutting away at programs. What should I do?
Head-Scratching in Helena
Related: Steak meals for political stakeholders.
No Wire Hangers
Dear Helena,
First, allow me to ask you to warn me ahead of time via a thoughtful note on the exterior of the envelope you send me your epistolary inquiries in before you drop such a hilarity bomb on me like a funny Mulsim. I was sipping an overpriced latte when I read this, and I might have choked on that energy-beverage had I not had the foresight to spew that liquid libation onto a 360-degree surface area around me as no one in real life ever does, but people on sitcoms always do because TV pioneer Danny Thomas made it humor-show trope in the years of nascent boob-tube comic stylings. I don’t want to die just yet, so I made it happen in real life.
Anyway, “No wire hangers” was the phrase fictional Joan Crawford screamed while beating her daughter, Christina, in the gay cult classic, Mommie Dearest, played oh-so-unforgettably by Faye Dunaway. And we can’t help but agree! When abortion was illegal pre-Roe-v-Wade, desperate women were known to perform crude abortions on themselves using the steel hideousness of Chinese-laundry-based curlies known as wire hangers. Now, just as our daughters should not have access to tissues because if they do their boyfriends might wipe up semen with them (no, seriously, that’s a thing) so the existence and proliferation of wire hangers must never-but-never be allowed unless we want to encourage women to kill their babies.
Now, where was I? Or, right! Should you have an abortion..? No. Just no.
Animals and Soon-to-Be Moms
Those two entities might be much more obvious choices to not end the lives of, but they’re not inside women and they’re examples of things we’ve already mastered, so we right-wingers, a group of wonderful peeps, I, of course, belong to, could care less what happens to them. And you’re a woman, so I don’t really care what happens to you. If you have to ruin your life to raise your last hetero-sex partner’s baby while he’s off doing all the things that make this terrific thing called patriarchy possible–erecting buildings, penises, and hegemonic frameworks–so be it. Your life was only going to be so good–you’re a woman, after all. All of Western society is arranged to punish you for being born with XX chromosomes. But a baby–now, a genderless alien being floating about in amniotic fluid inside a bitches-get-stitches, well, now he could be the next warrior in the war Trump supporters like me are waging on all of society as Republic-vengeance for eight years of Obama. And also he could be the next Trump himself! Oh, the thought of ending that life is…oh, god, it’s too much to bear.
And: Gag gifts for the Alt-prankster in you.
Nightmare the Morning After Pill
If you thought the utterly nonsensical, rhetorical rubbish that is my point was over, you were wrong, my dear Head-Scratching. It ain’t over ’til it’s over, girl. My last point in this article that’s probably made your eyes bleed at this point–or at least wish they were bleeding so the blood would obscure your vision, disabling your ability to read–is that abortion is just the tip of the non-existent, Arctic iceberg. Once we let women decide the course of their lives and the geography of their futures and the topography of their tailbone-areas, well, then it’s just a slippery slope–one as slippery as the pole at Scores where whores who fuck outside-a-marriage work–to having a say in the way society is structured. And in case it weren’t crystal clear at this point, you don’t deserve that. So do NOT–I repeat DO NOT–get rid of your baby. It has to come out in order to go down on a man. At least that’s the case now. Until science finds a way to completely make women irrelevant except for their being the yammering lips atop a set of vaginal lips, this is the way it must be.
Inception Contraception
I hope that you’ve by now, canceled your appointment to even consider your family planning options. Well–did you?!? In the next 300 or so words, I expect you to have done so, or I’m going to send you to your room without dessert so you can think about what you’ve done. Remember what we talked about! But don’t, on the other hand, remember that there’s a thing called contraception not about contraception or even giving any thought to what your opinion or desire is when your hubz “says,” by way of pitching a trouser tent, that he wants to get a little s’in s’in. After he’s done ejecting his liquid VHS tape into you, then you’re worthy of saving, my dear female readers. Until then, you’d be well-advised–by me, everyone’s favorite right-wing advice columnist but only because there probably are no others–to keep your lips zipped…and covered in gloss to infantilize and inappropriately-sexualize a little bitch called “you.”
In between now and my next column on this day, at this time next week—ask questions, but promise me you will fail to grow and evolve—indeed, change in any way—when you get the Alt-answers.
Also: We review Billy Freespan’s men’s movement classic The Masculine Physique.
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