Supreme Reproduction

I haven't mentioned politics much because politics make me crazy. Not because I cannot make up my mind but because when I listen and when I read it all becomes one unscientific morass of how could this possibly be happening? Do we really have to find out whether a man supports my right to have an abortion before he sits on the Supreme Court? I know I have a goddamn right to an abortion. Why the hell do I have to listen to this idiocy over and over? Must I pretend that there is another side? Is Mr. Alito gonna come on over here and give me my next pap smear? Maybe he could like be my rabbi or something, or my lesbian partner.

I hear and read many intelligent people critiquing this and other subjects. Yet - and this is not some tirade about why I don't vote because I do, or why I don't do anything, because I do - I am hard-pressed to stick with a conversation about his swimmer and my egg and the future of the resulting zygote. The tiny little doober is inside me, get it? I feel that if George Bush does not want me to have an abortion he does not have to perform the procedure. I wasn't planning on inviting him, anyway.

Do we ask nominees how they feel about male circumcision? How about peeing standing up vs. sitting down? Vasectomy? Testicular abnormalities? Premature ejaculation? Impotence? Do you notice how none of these are very good analogies? Maybe I'm irresponsible when, after a few minutes, I cannot bear wasting time listening to the governmental preoccupation, no, obsession with my uterus, when they should be protecting all the babies who are already here. I'll bet there are even babies in Iraq, and other strange countries like that.

Perhaps I was too hasty about that invitation to George W. If I decide to have a third baby, I'm inviting the Supremes and George (not Laura, she's too busy advancing literacy) and they can watch my whole genital area puff up like a basketball, my labia inflate into man-eating suckers, the blood and the mucus all over the head, and the blobby baby in all of his of her veiny glory. Before they can sing Hallelujah! I'll give birth to the placenta. George will have brought an old Maine lobster pot, and I'm sure Ruth wouldn't mind supplying the Dansk bowls. Mmmm... placenta stew. And sweat pouring off me, my protectors gathered around, I'll be like, "Hey Rose, Guys, what do you think I should do with my baby?"

I'm just grateful they'll be there to help.