Putting The “Pub” In Republican

Putting The “Pub” In Republican


I woke up this morning to find that the country had been shifted 10 feet or so to the right. I was so angry that I sat down and wrote my daughter a letter, which I often do when I’m upset. It beats hitting the wall, or hitting a Russian, if one wanders too close. (Having lived here for six months or so and hearing them taIk, I have to wonder why the Russkies wanted H-Bombs or Russian nuclear “Wessles”; they could have easily spat us to death.)

Even though it’s only the mid-terms, it means that these reactionary assholes, who are against everything that’s sane and light and right, have deadlocked the congress again. Say goodbye to Obamacare and everything so painfully fought for (Okay, I know I’m channeling Capra at this point, and that the battles might have been much easier if the Democrats hadn’t been such a bunch of limp dick liberals who straddled the fence for so long and with such apparent comfort that you feel like you’re having lunch with Vlad the Impaler and retinue.

But let’s say that, worst-case scenario, you’re raped, and to the shocked — SHOCKED — Congressmen and -women, your body doesn’t have some sort of magical spontaneous miscarriage that rids you of having to carry the unwanted fetus to term. And let’s say you’re married to a middle-aged white male who drives a pickup, and whose
idea of multi-tasking is drinking a can of Pabst at the same time. You’ve already said goodbye to civil rights, equal pay, and any other form of equality; might as well toss in reproductive rights.

So you can just forget about the opportunity to choose a life of the mind–or for that matter, to choose ANY life. After all, opportunities are fueled by money, Honey, that your share of minimum wage will stretch
about as far as a golem’s diapers. If that.

Nope, I’m afraid that “A woman’s right to choose” is now limited between the kitchen and the nursery, and you’re lucky if you get that much. Career? Isn’t that cute, she wanted to be a writer or something. Well sure, if you think you can manage between changing diapers, cooking the meals, and don’t forget to take Snuggums out in the sun (Y’don’t have to worry about the planet being turned into an enormous microwave oven, or climate change at all, cause the Bible proved all that to be as phony as the gold filigree on the gunrack.) So just g’wan with all those others, down at the park. You know the one; it’s got that big statue of Jesus playing with the happy tyrannosaurs. Right on the corner of Stepford and Hitchcock.
Just be sure to be back by curfew…

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