I’ve had it up to here with this deadbeat-dad-guy currently being promoted by some men’s rights group (poor, rightless men!) as a poster child for how to behave like a stupid white male 20-something jerk. I allude to this so-called “Roe v Wade for men” dealio, wherein the MRA group claims, apparently without grasping that there are over 387 fundamental differences between pregnancy and money, that since women can have abortions, men should be able to bag on child support.
This scenario would restore the natural order, which has been dangerously out of whack ever since Roe v. Wade gave women that extra little measure of human dignity, by returning the financial responsibility for child-rearing to anybody but the father. If the mother can’t pay and the kid ends up on food stamps, it’s no skin off the deadbeat’s nose; society owes him the right to boink anything that moves, and ought to foot the bill.
So all this is is a laughably whiny attempt at financial retribution against women who dare to flaunt their humanity by claiming personal autonomy. “What! Women claiming ownership of their own uteruses? We’d better sock it to those lying, entrapping cuntalinas where it really hurts: their fashionably tiny handbags!”
Speaking of lying, entrapping cuntalinas, Amanda observes with her usual clarity that the mythical Conniving Bitch character is central to this, and every other, deadbeat-dad-guy’s argument.* The Conniving Bitch is always trying to trick some poor feckless dude into coughing up his precious bodily fluids because lard knows if she can produce a son and heir she’ll be entitled to half the Quartermain fortune! Or, if she’s not a character in a soap opera, she’ll be set for life with that princely $500 a month in child support she’ll be lucky to ever see. And, because the only way to avoid this grievous inequity is to stop boinking women without condoms, the feckless dudes of America are obviously powerless to stop this juggernaut of bitchly evil.
Pedestrians on the Sidewalk of Average Intelligence, hie thee to the nearest underpass. It’s raining baloney.
*Because I have officially acquired chemo-brain, I seem to have written one of those poorly-structured sentences that inadvertently says something more or less antithetical to the intended point of the sentence. I’m too lazy to fix it, though. Sorry, Amanda!