Every so often the abortion debate will resurface as a hot button issue in American politics, ushering in a stark reminder that the real disappointment is that the sun will take another 5 billion years before it explodes and wipes us all out.
First we have the backwater conservative evangelic; convinced of the impossibility of Darwin’s theory of evolution just because their Cro-Magnon ilk never mentally evolved past the Paleolithic period.
These knuckle dragging, bible-thumping philistines are testimony only to the fact that if government intervention were ever to be implemented in regard to human reproduction, it should’ve been mass sterilization two-thousand years ago.
Then we have the radical feminist; perpetually apathetic to the prospect of monogamy, finding thrill and solace only in playing Russian Roulette on a stranger’s naked cock in neat intervals of every other ovulation cycle.
Tallying up her abortions on a piece of notebook paper thumb-tacked to the wall, she glances and nods victoriously at her Andrea Dworkin poster and the myopic slogan “My Body, My Choice!”
Unsettling as it is vivid, these two diametric opposites are exactly the same; personifications of the inescapable realization that human civilization was the result of a pernicious glitch in the grand and meaningless timeline of all there ever was and all there ever will be.