Raylan The Redneck Adonis Chimes In On The Subject Of AbortionBy Luis Prada
Alright, ya’ll. Listen up. My words are gonna blow your goddamn mind. I’m here to talk to ya’ll ‘bout nuking babies so women don’t have to deal with them shittin’ all over the place and cryin’ and all that annoying crap babies do while I try to watch the annual retrospective on the Smoky and the Bandit trilogy at my local the-ator.
Now, I ain’t no expert on babies. I mean, I’ve had a few in my time, but I ain’t never raised one. Shit, I don’t even much know where the fuck my babies is right now. For all I know, them bastards could be sucking off a trucker by a rest stop so they can get some protein in their bellies. All of them. All of them sucking off the same trucker. Fighting over his man milk for sustenance. Some may call my views on what my spawn are up to a bit dark. I call it reality. In my reality, if one of my babies is raised in the loving care of his momma — and only his momma — then that boy is only a pink thong away from flapping his dong on the stage of a homo club.
Anyway, I’m getting off track here. Abortion is the subject at hand.
Abortion is when a woman decides to get rid of her baby because she tripped and feel on to the dicks of about 14 different dudes, and would rather just erase the mistake in her belly than have to make a bunch of phone calls trying to decide which dick she fell on is in possession of the a bank account as expansive as a pig’s ass at a corn holing festival.
The process of abortion can be done in a few ways that I know of. You can go get the baby murdered by a “doctor” at a “medical clinic,” or you can do it the old fashioned way and stand behind a horse and wait for that sucker to get startled. You can also use hot coat hangers, but most women choose not to do it that way for fear of being damned to hell for allowing a heated implement of trouser suspension in to their birth crevices. Jesus hates him some coat hangers, mostly because he’s jealous that they weren’t invented until after he was dead. He always had to keep his Jesus robes on a dirty-ass shelf filled with dirt and his various Jesus knick knacks. Jesus was in to various forms of knick knackery.
Some argue that you shouldn’t kill that baby because you never know what it could one day become. Others argue that it’s the woman’s choice to do whatever she wants, and simply leaving the option open is something that shouldn’t be looked down upon. But I say there’s a third option. When that baby is born, the momma can sign a waiver that officially makes that baby open to an ass beating after it turns 18 – a free and legal ass beating at any moment of the day, but only after that baby has grown in to a fully functioning asshole; just a real thorn in your dick. The kind of person that spits on the ground when you’re walking behind them. The kind of person that doesn’t hold that there door on the elevator machine when you’re running late. The kind of sick fucker that don’t wash his hands after he drops off some shits, and then tries to give you a hand shake and you’re all like, “GET YOU’RE GODDAMNED FECAL APPENDAGE THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!”
This option is clearly the best one, because it pleases both sides of the argument by giving everyone what they want. A momma that wants to kill that baby because they don’t feel they’re ready to raise it properly. That there’s an argument that makes perfect sense to Raylan. Others want to see if the baby grows up to cure cancer, or finally find away to get these warts off my feet. Again, a viable argument. But here we have an elegant solution that makes everybody happy: give that baby a couple of decades to prove his worth. If he doesn’t, fuck’em. Cram a red hot poker in his ass and string him up a flag pole as a lesson to all the other abortion babies out there whose momma’s have signed away their right to act like a dick and ruin some dude’s salad by sneezing on it, or by tracking their muddy boots all over the floor of my newly cleaned F-150. Fuck, I’ll whip a baby’s ass if he dragged his dirty baby feet all up inside my truck, born or not. I’ll stick my head up there in to that womb and set his ass straight before his momma wishes, years later, that she had signed them Ass Beating papers so her boy could get the stupid stomped out of him on a daily basis by random-ass people.
Shit, that’s what I’d do. But who am I to tell the world what to do. I’m just an impossibly handsome redneck with flowing, jet black hair and a glorious tat of a tiger surrounded by flames on my chest. The big thinkers of the world don’t typically take folks like me seriously.
There may be a good reason for that.