You Got Your Embryo In My Soccer

« July 2006 »

It's becoming a sort of Wednesday tradition around here. Collecting the flotsam, jetsam, and shitsam that spews forth from the collective human piehole into a hate-filled bolus I like to call IDIOTS SAY THE DAMNDEST THINGS!

"In response to your editorialists' paean to the world game ("World Cup: Life on the outside looking in," July 8): In the fall, our children's baseball diamonds fall silent, and we awaken one morning to find they have been cruelly carved up by the metes and bounds of the world game. The seduction of the collective begins. We are all Europeans now! No more wars, free health care for all (and sneering cheap shots about cowboy presidents). Give me baseball, the celebration of American exceptionalism. Leave the stalemated trench warfare to the Europeans. Baseball forever!" Chip Allen of Woodbury, in a letter to the editor.

You know, I'm no soccer booster. Soccer's a lot like the metric system. It's a pretty good idea, we as Americans were told how cool it was in the early 80's, and we have stubbornly refused to adopt it ever since, except for the occasional large bottle of soda or British pub with a plasma TV.

But Chad Allen makes me want to love soccer. To embrace futbol. To shove each and every one of those black and white pentagons down Allen's retarded, xenophobic, low-grade, Blue Collar Comedy Tour, Euro-bashing mouth. Baseball as the celebration of American exceptionalism? I suppose. I mean, we've got a President who makes Yogi Berra look like the living incarnation of the Rosetta Stone. We wanted to pump ourselves up and look big and strong, and now we've got shrunken testicles and are yelling at people for no good reason. And at any given moment, at least half of us are standing around with our thumbs up our asses, chawing on something.

At least when soccer has a shootout, somebody wins.

I guess you would say out of the mouths of babes, children comes great wisdom. This is a chart she did last year when she was in Washington, talking, when the House was considering legislation, the same legislation, she did this chart, this letter that kids write — my kids write — I love them. She said, this is Hannah, snowflake, “We’re kids. I love you.” And then she draws three pictures down here below. This is her smiling because she got adopted and she’s here. Here is another frozen embryo — these are embryos — that’s sad because he’s still sitting in a frozen state and then here’s one that as she explains is saying “What, are you going to kill me?” This was her explanation to her mother that just gave this chart to me. I hope people really would think about that. - Senator Sam Brownback, one of the things that's the matter with Kansas, "debating" stem-cell funding legislation in the Senate.

OK, there are a couple of things we need to address here. First of all, calling children adopted from frozen embryos "snowflakes" is fucking creepy. and part of this culture's continuing obsession over the process that produces children instead of the children themselves. I don't care if you got your child through in vitro, adoption, or doggy-style with the mailman, treat your child like a human being, not like a poster child for an agenda.

And second of all, how fucking sad are we that our leaders are seriously suggesting that we base our national public science policy on the scrawlings of a SEVEN YEAR OLD GIRL? What's next, the Unicorn Protection Act? Warplanes dropping bunker busters on Billy Peters' treehouse? Let me emphasize the absurdity of this by showing you the document Sam Mother Fucking Brownback would like us to use to determine the viability of stem-cell research:

Now, I'm no expert on child development. And making fun of childrens' drawings is that other guy's gig. But as a handy guide to senators about the fundamental nature of frozen embryos, I have to say this thing comes up way short. But, you know. Fuck all those people with diseases. We have to protect the bonus blastula that are gonna end up as medical waste anyway because, let's face it, pro-lifers aren't exactly lined up around the block with microwaves and turkey basters. All because we gave a seven-year-old girl some crayons and a big piece of posterboard. Fucking idiots.