Liberals: Personhood Starts With Paul Ryan’s Jizz

[Al B. Sure!]

Wisconsin Congressman, Romney running mate, and widow's peak cultivator Paul Ryan has again cosponsored the Sanctity of Human Life Act, which would grant "all the legal and constitutional attributes and privileges of personhood" to a "one-celled human embryo," even before implantation. The only problem is that a one-celled human embryo doesn't exist. Looks like this bill needs a solid edit — no problem, that's what we're here for.
As Robin Marty at RH Reality Check puts it:

Let's just be clear that there is no such thing as a "one-celled" embryo, because the embryonic stage follows first on the zygote or fertilized egg, which develops into a blastocyst, which then develops into an embryo... and is not "one-celled."

To help reconcile the Republicans' total misunderstanding of science (for the benefit of misogyny, more or less), allow us to amend this bill. Since a one-celled embryo does not exist, let's back up a step and establish personhood at a stage we know does indeed exist and with which Paul Ryan is actually familiar. Jezebel humbly submits our own version of the Sanctity of Human Life Act, which would grant "all the legal and constitutional attributes and privileges of personhood" to Paul Ryan's jizz. Our edited version of the bill — which, as you'll see, would merely tweak the original, no big deal — is below.

http://jezebel.com/5975868/personhood-starts-with-paul-ryans-jizz?popular=true

As a side note, why do liberals act like pro-lifers just want to put women in chains as if the abortion debate isn't about a axiomatic disagreement about the commencement of life?

[kentonio]

As a side note, why do liberals act like pro-lifers just want to put women in chains as if the abortion debate isn't about a axiomatic disagreement about the commencement of life?

Because setting aside the 'debate' part, the actual consequences are extremely wide reaching and pretty detrimental to womens rights. When it comes to things like pregnancy after rape, you are very much getting into 'women in chains' territory if you expect them to undergo the traumas and physical damages of unwanted pregnancy. When the anti-abortion stuff goes hand in hand with anti-contraception then it decomes a definite war on women.

[MikeH]

Other than for the most extreme extremists. The debate is about in which circumstances it should be allowed, not about whether or not it should be allowed.

[dannubis]

I wonder if these republicans realize that with each ejaculation de facto millions of potential individuals are murdered ruthlessly in the uterus... or they die from destitution in a sock.

Genocidal maniacs !

[Asher]

I thought people stopped using the word "jizz" after they turned 18.

[loinburger]

I thought people stopped using the word "jizz" after they turned 18.

The Big Space F*ck by Kurt Vonnegut

In 1987 it became possible in the United States of America for a young person to sue his parents for the way he had been raised. He could take them to court and make them pay money and even serve jail terms for serious mistakes they made when he was just a helpless little kid. This was not only an effort to achieve justice but to discourage reproduction, since there wasn’t anything much to eat any more. Abortions were free. In fact, any woman who volunteered for one got her choice of a bathroom scale or a table lamp.

In 1989, America staged the Big Space F*ck, which was a serious effort to make sure that human life would continue to exist somewhere in the Universe, since it certainly couldn’t continue much longer on Earth. Everything had turned to sh*t and beer cans and old automobiles and Clorox bottles. An interesting thing happened in the Hawaiian Islands, where they had been throwing trash down extinct volcanoes for years: a couple of the volcanoes all of a sudden spit it all back up. And so on.

This was a period of great permissiveness in matters of language, so even the President was saying sh*t and f*ck and so on, without anybody’s feeling threatened or taking offense. It was perfectly OK. He called the Space F*ck a Space F*ck and so did everybody else. It was a rocket ship with eight-hundred pounds of freeze dried jizzum in its nose. It was going to be fired at the Andromeda Galaxy, two-million light years away. The ship was named the Arthur C. Clarke, in honor of a famous space pioneer.

It was to be fired at midnight on the Fourth of July. At ten o’clock that night, Dwayne Hoobler and his wife Grace were watching the countdown on television in the living room of their modest home in Elk Harbor, Ohio, on the shore of what used to be Lake Erie. Lake Erie was almost solid sewage now. There were man-eating lampreys in there thirty-eight feet long. Dwayne was a guard in the Ohio Adult Correctional Institution, which was two miles away. His hobby was making birdhouses out of Clorox bottles. He went on making them and hanging them around his yard, even though there weren’t any birds any more.

Dwayne and Grace marveled at a film demonstration of how jizzum had been freeze-dried for the trip. A small beaker of the stuff, which had been contributed by the head of the Mathematics Department at the University of Chicago, was flash-frozen. Then it was placed under a bell jar and the air was exhausted from the jar. The air evanesced, leaving a fine white powder. The powder certainly didn’t look like much, and Dwayne Hoobler said so– but there were several hundred million sperm cells in there, in suspended animation. The original contribution, an average contribution, had been two cubic centimeters. There was enough powder, Dwayne estimated out loud, to clog the eye of a needle. And eight hundred pounds of the stuff would soon be on its way to Andromeda.
“F*ck you, Andromeda,” said Dwayne, and he wasn’t being coarse. He was echoing billboards and stickers all over town. Other signs said, “Andromeda, We Love You,” and “Earth has the Hots for Andromeda,” and so on.
There was a knock on the door, and an old friend of the family, the County Sheriff, simultaneously let himself in. “How are you, you old motherf*cker?” said Dwayne.

“Can’t complain, sh*tface,” said the Sheriff, and they joshed back and forth like that for a while. Grace chuckled, enjoying their wit. She wouldn’t have chuckled so richly, however, if she had been a little more observant. She might have noticed that the sheriff’s jocularity was very much on the surface. Underneath, he had something troubling on his mind. She might have noticed, too, that he had legal papers in his hand.

“Sit down, you silly old fart,” said Dwayne, ”and watch Andromeda get the surprise of her life.”

“The way I understand it,” the sheriff replied, “I’d have to sit there for more than two-million years. My old lady might wonder what’s become of me.” He was a lot smarter than Dwayne. He had jizzum on the Arthur C. Clarke, and Dwayne didn’t. You had to have an I.Q. of over 115 to have your jizzum accepted. There were certain exceptions to this: if you were a good athlete or could play a musical instrument or paint pictures, but Dwayne didn’t qualify in any of those ways, either. He had hoped that birdhouse-makers might be entitled to special consideration, but this turned out not to be the case. The Director of the New York Philharmonic, on the other hand, was entitled to contribute a whole quart, if he wanted to. He was sixty-eight years old. Dwayne was forty-two.

There was an old astronaut on the television now. He was saying that he sure wished he could go where his jizzum was going. But he would sit at home instead, with his memories and a glass of Tang. Tang used to be the official drink of the astronauts. It was a freeze-dried orangeade.

“Maybe you haven’t got two million years,” said Dwayne, ” but you’ve got at least five minutes. Sit thee down.”

“What I’m here for–” said the sheriff, and he let his unhappiness show, “is something I customarily do standing up.”
Dwayne and Grace were sincerely puzzled. They didn’t have the least idea what was coming next. Here is what it was: the sheriff handed each of them a subpoena, and he said, “It’s my sad duty to inform you that your daughter, Wanda June, has accused you of ruining her when she was a child.”

Dwayne and Grace were thunderstruck. They knew that Wanda June was twenty-one now and entitled to sue, but they certainly hadn’t expected her to do so. She was in New York City and when they congratulated her about her birthday on the telephone, in fact, one of the things Grace had said was, “Well, you can sue us now, honeybunch, if you want to”. Grace was so sure she and Dwayne had been good parents that she could laugh when she went on, “If you want to, you can send your rotten old parents off to jail.” Wanda June was an only child, incidentally. She had come close to having some siblings, but Grace had had them aborted. Grace had taken three table lamps and a bathroom scale instead.

“What does she say we did wrong?” Grace asked the sheriff.

“There’s a seperate list of charges inside each of your subpoenas, ” he said. And he couldn’t look his wretched old friends in the eye, so he looked at the television instead. A scientist there was explaining why Andromeda had been selected as a target. There were at least eighty-seven chrono-synclastic infundibulae, time warps, between Earth and the Andromeda Galaxy. If the Arthur C. Clarke passed through any one of them, the ship and its load would be multiplied a trillion times, and would appear everywhere throughout space and time.

“If there’s any fecundity anywhere in the Universe, ” the scientist promised, “our seed will find it and bloom.”
One of the most depressing things about the space program so far, of course, was that it had demonstrated that fecundity was one hell of a long way off, if anywhere.

Dumb people like Dwayne and Grace, and even fairly smart people like the sheriff, had been encouraged to believe that there was hospitality out there, and that Earth was just a piece of sh*t to use as a launching platform.

Now Earth really was a piece of sh*t, and it was beginning to dawn on even dumb people that it might be the only inhabitable planet human beings would ever find.

Grace was in tears over being sued by her daughter, and the list of charges she was reading was broken into multiple images by the tears. “Oh God, oh God, oh God—” she said, “she’s talking about things I forgot all about, but she never forgot a thing. She’s talking about something that happened when she was only four years old.”

Dwayne was reading charges against himself, so he didn’t ask Grace what awful thing she was supposed to have done when Wanda June was only four, but here it was: Poor little Wanda June drew pretty pictures with a crayon all over the new living-room wallpaper to make her mother happy. Her mother blew up and spanked her instead. Since that day, Wanda June claimed, she had not been able to look at any sort of art materials without trembling like a leaf and breaking out into cold sweats. “Thus was I deprived,” Wanda June’s lawyer had her say, “of a brilliant and lucrative career in the arts.”

Dwayne meanwhile was learning that he had ruined his daughter’s opportunities for what her lawyer called an “advantageous marriage and the comfort and love therefrom.” Dwayne had done this, supposedly, by being half in the bag whenever a suitor came to call. Also, he was often stripped to the waist when he answered the door, but still had on his cartridge belt and his revolver. She was even able to name a lover her father had lost for her: John L. Newcomb, who had finally married somebody else. He had a very good job now. He was in command of the security force at an arsenal out in South Dakota, where they stockpiled cholera and bubonic plague.

The sheriff had still more bad news to deliver, and he knew he would have an opportunity to deliver it soon enough. Poor Dwayne and Grace were bound to ask him, “What made her do this to us?” The answer to that question would be more bad news, which was that Wanda June was in jail, charged with being the head of a shoplifting ring. The only way she could avoid prison was to prove that everything she was and did was her parents’ fault.

Meanwhile, Senator Flem Snopes of Mississippi, Chair-man of the Senate Space Committee, had appeared on the television screen. He was very happy about the Big Space F*ck, and he said it had been what the American space program had been aiming toward all along. He was proud, he said, that the United States had seen fit to locate the biggest jizzum-freezing plant in his “l’il ol’ home town,” which was Mayhew.

The word “jizzum” had an interesting history, by the way. It was as old as “f*ck” and “sh*t” and so on, but it continued to be excluded from dictionaries, long after the others were let in. This was because so many people wanted it to remain a truly magic word—the only one left.

And when the United States announced that it was going to do a truly magical thing, was going to fire sperm at the Andromeda Galaxy, the populace corrected its government. Their collective unconscious announced that it was time for the last magic word to come into the open. They insisted that sperm was nothing to fire at another galaxy. Only jizzum would do. So the Government began using that word, and it did something that had never been done before, either: it standardized the way the word was spelled.

The man who was interviewing Senator Snopes asked him to stand up so everybody could get a good look at his cod-piece, which the Senator did. Codpieces were very much in fashion, and many men were wearing codpieces in the shape of rocket ships, in honor of the Big Space F*ck. These customarily had the letters “ U.S.A.” embroidered on the shaft. Senator Snopes’ shaft, however, bore the Stars and Bars of the Confederacy.

This led the conversation into the area of heraldry in general, and the interviewer reminded the Senator of his campaign to eliminate the bald eagle as the national bird. The Senator explained that he didn’t like to have his country represented by a creature that obviously hadn’t been able to cut the mustard in modern times.

Asked to name a creature that had been able to cut the mustard, the Senator did better than that: he named two—the lamprey and the bloodworm. And, unbeknownst to him or to anybody, lampreys were finding the Great Lakes too vile and noxious even for them. While all the human beings were in their houses, watching the Big Space F*ck, lampreys were squirming out of the ooze and onto land. Some of them were nearly as long and thick as the Arthur C. Clarke.

And Grace Hoobler tore her wet eyes from what she had been reading, and she asked the sheriff the question he had been dreading to hear: “What made her do this to us?”

The sheriff told her, and then he cried out against cruel Fate, too. “This is the most horrible duty I ever had to carry out—” he said brokenly, “to deliver news this heartbreaking to friends as close as you two are—On a night that’s supposed to be the most joyful night in the history of mankind.”

He left sobbing, and stumbled right into the mouth of a lamprey. The lamprey ate him immediately, but not before he screamed. Dwayne and Grace Hoobler rushed outside to see what the screaming was about, and the lamprey ate them, too.

It was ironical that their television set continued to report the countdown, even though they weren’t around any more to see or hear or care.

“Nine!” said a voice. And then, “Eight!” And then, “Seven!” And so on.

[snoopy369]

Al, people conflate it with misogyny because it's often conflated with misogyny (and because there is a not irrational belief that some people oppose abortion out of misogyny - not saying that everyone, or even most, do; but some probably do). Opposing birth control and otherwise putting limits on what women do _is_ misogyny. And then there's the whole 'freedom' thing that America used to stand for; even if your religious beliefs tell you X, one of the points of America being, well, America, is that we don't let people tell each other what to do just because of their religious beliefs. Abortion is obviously sort of sticky, but I think that if it's sort of sticky on both sides, the default should be not to restrict it. If there are valid viewpoints that are each a big portion of the country, the non-theocratic answer is to allow people the freedom to do what they think is right - pro-lifers should not abort children and pro-choicers should be allowed to, just like muslim women can choose to wear hijabs and non-muslim women can choose not to.

[dannubis]

Nazi-Goering-Himmler-baby-killing librul !

[molly bloom]

Terminology rethink maybe #1:

Abortion is obviously sort of sticky, but I think that if it's sort of sticky on both sides,

[snoopy369]

All use of terminology is intentional.

[MichaeltheGreat]

As a side note, why do liberals act like pro-lifers just want to put women in chains as if the abortion debate isn't about a axiomatic disagreement about the commencement of life?

Have you bought into the notion that everything that disagrees with a conservative viewpoint is "liberal?"

Nobody has a monopoly on hypocrisy. The issue isn't disagreement about commencement of "life," since neither dead eggs nor dead sperm do anything. The issue is where does the state gain a legitimate interest in the whatever it is at that stage that's developing in the womb, such that the state controls certain aspects of what the woman can do. For "pro-lifers" who disapprove of exceptions for rape and incest, the issue is that the state has the power to give superior rights to the non-sentient blastocyst/embryo/fetus, because it does not matter whether the woman in question (remember her?) ever consented to being impregnated.

There are typically two layers of hypocrisy - first, social conservatives who want to regulate the hell out of abortion typically are hands off regulating business and more public activities, and insist on individual rights re how to raise your kid, how many guns you have, etc. So, like hard core lefties who want to regulate the hell of out some things, but not others (e.g. smoke dope and **** whoever you want, but (the entity in the sky who can not be named) forbid you try to start a business.

The second layer of hypocrisy is that the only regulation is typically abortion - oh, we must protect God's little love drop, but feel free to eat like ****, smoke, drink while pregnant, engage in medically unsound faith healing practices. After all, we're in the liberty business. So Pro-lifers typically don't give a **** about anything other than the abortion decision.

The other thing you're conveniently forgetting is the recent history prior to Roe v Wade. Roe came only 6 years after Griswold. It used to be common that a married woman could not get a birth control prescription without her husband's permission. There's liberty for you. Also used to be common that single women would be denied birth control prescriptions by her doctor, or the pharmacy. Single women were supposed to be chaste and wait for the right fellow to come along and make proper wifeypoos of them, you know?

[MichaeltheGreat]

Other than for the most extreme extremists. The debate is about in which circumstances it should be allowed, not about whether or not it should be allowed.

That covers most of the pro-life crowd in the US. The intermediate goal is to ratchet the restrictions as far as politically feasible at any given time, then come back for more. Most of the pro-choice crowd in the US (most, but not all) support late term restrictions on abortion.

[Jon Miller]

See, I would have said it was the other way around.

JM

[kentonio]

You genuinely think most pro-choice people are big fans of late term abortions?

[Imran Siddiqui]

You genuinely think most pro-choice people are big fans of late term abortions?

A lot of vocal pro-choicers (which is why it appears more pro-choices are against late term restrictions) make a lot of noise about late term abortion restrictions being a restrictrion on a woman's right to choose.