Dear Gifted Public Servant, I mean no disrespect when in the echoing, legitimacy-conferring, statue-festooned halls of power I drop my souvenir Pentagon gift shop bag onto the polished floor and in a spray of projectile mouth juices begin to shout uncontrollably. It can’t be helped. You are a moron with the world view of a herring. To wit – when is Life Sacred? A legislative puzzle that torments, often across several turgid news cycles at a throw. Gifted Public Servant, I put this question to you because it confounds you, very publicly. I ask you this because in your sonorous public pronouncements on the matter you are a touching fool, a poignant reminder that even wall-eyed idiots can often dress themselves.
In the legislative chamber you will take the dais and hold forth excitedly on the sanctity of a fetus (a person, you point out), its having been infused with Specific Spiritual Gravity in the instant the sperm rudely head-butted its way into the blase and distracted egg. You’ll move your arms around in a Marceau-charade of righteous distress. Abortion is murder. While we are suspended John Glenn-like in our water-filled capsules (godspeed!) we seem to enjoy all the angry protections of our nation’s ironclad charter and the kneesock enthusiasts who composed it. Life begins at conception. Period. When does life end? For some it ends in the middle of an otherwise pleasant family outing in rural ____stan, a benighted place where, it is believed by some limp-weinered liberals, these devils gather to eat sandwiches in the sun and chat with family. A grown fetus in a faraway land may be poised to take a sip of tea. In roars the Phallic Party Crasher, an eyeless flying robot from the First World, come to secure Our Freedom in a messy flash of overcooked, previously sanctified viscera.
Gifted Public Servant, no matter your often teary, abject devotion to seedling spirits from Heaven, your raised right voting hand will opt to burn away grown fetuses in gusty explosive fires. Meanwhile your left hand caresses God’s Word and pleads on behalf of the spirit-filled zygote. Can you have it both ways? Yes. You are following the biblical injunction to keep your right and left hands in separate rooms. That is your gift. Your ethical bipolarity draws fancy comparisons to those quantum doo-dads which occupy several mutually exclusive reality states at once, and which can even be changed by the very act of observation. Sound familiar? So your seeming collapse of logic actually has its provenance in quantum fanciness. (Use the ‘quantum fanciness’ defense next Sunday when the libs corner you at your speaking engagement outside Ye Olde Flintlock Dispensary.) Gifted Public Servant, the zygotes have grown up in another jurisdiction, presumably at the behest of another, non FDA-approved God. Yes, you are an accidental pantheist. These folks are yours to Judge. We have seen to it. Judge them harshly. The limb-dispersing, life-story-concluding missile blast will leave a smoldering hole where fetuses gestured and laughed only seconds before.
For all that, the conflagration is very very far away. The eruptive hellfire will not ruffle or otherwise discomfit the pretty suit your keeper on K Street bought you, and which you don each morning without any evident sheepishness. The explosion will not alarm your extramarital pal, who it’s fair to guess would in any setting indeed be panicked by flying human guts. Gifted Public Servant, I ask you; what would protect these distant unfortunates from your remote-control righteousness? Were all the wedding guests to sport dangling umbilical cords, might that give you pause? Hey, you wouldn’t harm a fetus, would you? You promised! The ‘Stans could do a booming business in the sort of fresh placental accoutrement needed to protect them from the eyeless wrath of the Party Crashers we count on to keep the Homeland free and easy. Yes. A Pakistani wedding guest sporting a fashionably exaggerated, drone-visible Donna Karan Umbilical Accessory might just stand a chance. Our elected Dronestrike-and-Zygote-Adoring quantum ‘lawmakers’ might just give you a pass.
And now a word to our unwitting adversaries; if you have the irrevocable misfortune to be born in an Enemy State (that is, any place outside the contiguous United States, sometimes including Hawaii; Alaska is recently off the hook), for God’s sake hang onto your umbilical cord. It may come in handy later when you find even the Selena Gomez FetalWear out of your reach at the Lahore Walmart. Remember and repeat: fetus HOLY – wedding guest in ____stan COLLATERAL. This Freedom® business is
getting complicated a big ol’piece of chocolate cake.