What I don't understand about these women and their abortions

Maybe more people should tell you how easy you have it.

Photo by Manny Becerra on Unsplash

Democrats believe they have a chance to take Florida in the 2024 election, according to a memo from Biden’s campaign shared with friendly media this week. If such a thing were possible, bank on that being due to the 326,000 criminal migrants that the Biden Administration has airlifted to the Sunshine State in the last year, vastly more than any other state (just don’t call it a population Replacement).

No, like clockwork, it’s abortion! abortion! abortion! from the gaslighting party of mummified ovaries. On Monday, Florida’s top court upheld a 15-week abortion ban which, critics say, paves the way for a six-week ban passed earlier by the Florida legislature.

From now until November, the usual suspects will be emotionally machine-gunned into voting with their genitalia. And the Left’s impending election-year summer of fire and fury is off to an early start—the boorish agents of revolution are already working overtime, using their lunch break from protesting for terrorism to picket outside the Supreme Court, where another abortion case is on the docket.

I’m still nagged by one question that no one seems to ask: why the hell do women still need abortions? It goes without saying that I’m not talking about rape or incest or the mother’s life being at risk. Generously speaking, that accounts for less than three percent of abortions in the U.S. and virtually everyone’s on board with those exceptions.

Even the Left no longer uses rape, or the mother’s life, as a truncheon, opting instead to celebrate abortion for abortion’s sake, as they hysterically pretend it isn’t a sad and disturbing procedure that ought to be kept private.

Abortion-screechers have turned laziness and irresponsibility into a political identify masquerading as liberation, hoping that no one will call them out. But I will. As a gay, I am uniquely qualified to address this and pass judgement on the pity-party Death Cult.

(And don’t give me the my body, my choice bromide; you shredded that card when you cheered the government’s experimental, useless, and potentially deadly Covid-19 injectable being forced on the entire population).

You see, until very recently if the people in my community had reckless sex, we died. We didn’t have the luxury of hemming and hawing about it for nine months, or even six weeks, before popping down to the clinic to have the problem resolved. Since 1981, more than 700,000 Americans have died of HIV/AIDS. We learned very quickly that getting lost in the heat of the moment was a death sentence.

Today, like you gals, we have more options than just rolling out the ol’ rubber scumbag. In 2012, the FDA approved the use of a daily pill called PrEP—for Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis—which is like birth control for HIV. Take the pill, you won’t get the virus. Millions of gays are on it today; it costs $1,800 a month and is a much bigger headache than the birth control pill. You have to visit the doctor every three months to get poked, prodded, and swabbed to maintain your prescription.

Similarly, we have PEP, or Post-Exposure Prophylaxis, where, if you do mess up, you’ve got 72 hours to get to the doctor for a prescription that will knock out an early HIV infection. This is our Plan-B, also known as the morning after pill. The difference is that yours is over the counter, less expensive, and far less onerous to take and to obtain. Yet, gays around the world take their morning after pill everyday (it’s three pills a day for a month) and don’t complain about it.

Why are you so special? Perhaps more people need to tell you how easy you have it.

To all the loose women out there, we’re in the same boat. The difference is, if members of my community aren’t totally on top of being sexually responsible, we’re only gambling with our own lives, not another’s (unless you count the life of an uncomfortable bacterial infection meeting an antibiotic). And that is intrinsically more moral, whatever you think of gay sex. We don’t have to sacrifice a human life to remedy our mistakes—and I say this a baby who was a mistake or, as my parents call it, “a surprise.”