Three good posts on the Sunday Star-Times’ wankpiece on SECRET SCHOOLYARD ABORTION PERFORMED BY SATAN HIMSELF:
There’s a post I’ve been meaning to write for a while about fucking Nigel fucking Latta and his “teenagers are just mental” bullshit, but this brings up some of the same issues.
Teenagers aren’t fucking aliens. They’re not evil for no reason. And if your teenaged child gets pregnant and wants to have an abortion and doesn’t feel able to tell you, guess what? Not actually their fucking fault. They have their reasons.
Their reasons may not be “objectively” real – like, maybe you aren’t the kind of bastard who’s going to cuss them out and bar them from the house (in which case, small cookie to you for being a lot better than plenty of other fucking “parents”) – but frankly, if you haven’t done your job as a parent by being open and nonjudgemental about sex, or by spelling out clearly and sincerely that you will always support their reproductive choices, they have no fucking reason to assume the best from you in a society which treats teen pregnancy like it’s bubonic fucking plague.
And if in those circumstances your teenaged child tells their friends and seeks out an adult they do trust and gets helped through the shitty fucking hoops our legal system puts in the way of abortion? Try some fucking gratitude instead of making it All About Your Fucking Fee-Fees.
It’s okay, ladies, we can stop now.
We can put down our keyboards and go back to our kitchens, tie a picture-perfect bow in our polka-dot pinnies, and get to baking some cookies to reward a man who truly deserves them.
You see, we were wrong about Chris Trotter.
He’s a deep, sensitive man with a luxuriant moustache that we are too silly to admire properly. His boner, I have heard tell, is of tremendous proportions as befits a noble, wide-stanced member of the sainted dinosauria.
He wrote us a song, you see. Before many of we poor ignorant “confident young women” were even born, he wrote us a song about how much his feelings are actually the most important thing to focus on when we fight (in an appropriately timid fashion) for the right to control our fertility.
On a grey afternoon,
In an old waiting-room
He said: “In this circumstance
She’s a fifty-fifty chance.”
On a grey afternoon.
And I don’t know how she feels.
And I can’t know how she feels.
But I want her to know
That I feel for her, oh
I want her to know that I feel.
What Chris Trotter wants us all to know, comradettes, is that he and his verdant moustache care about us.
Isn’t that enough, really?
But it’s not enough for Chris. Saintly, magnanimous, divine-manhood-bearing idol that he is, he has also taken precious time out of his grooming schedule to write up a history of abortion reform in New Zealand. Truly, consider what we might have done, sistren, without this great service. Surely it is not becoming a lady to access the unfettered “Google” and subject herself to all manner of strange, thought-provoking search results in a selfish, egomaniacal quest to Educate Herself.
We never need educate ourselves so long as Chris, moustache at his side, is there to tell us about the history of a movement we fancy to call “ours”.
Do you think his great work ends there?
No, gentle acolytes. Chris also lets us know exactly how things stand right now – praise him! For without such cogent analysis to hand some of our number may have had to sacrifice dignity, self-respect, and honour by straying out of our father’s or husband’s doors to explore the World Outside for ourselves, to sully our soft, pale hands with the filth and degradation of Modern Politics.
Yet still he is not satisfied in his quest to make sweet, romantic intellectual love to our brains. He gives us the way forward, as only an artistic yet acutely-honed political mind can.
Yes, my sisters. We must focus group. We must conduct market research, for so it has always been done when people alienated from the means of production and denied their fair share of the nation’s wealth desire to learn more about what they themselves are thinking. Following in the footsteps of Kate Sheppard, we shall employ public relations consultants to tell us what to do.
But not yet, neonates. No, now is not the time, for it would go against the timetable laid out for us by the tragically unbearded Messiah before us. We must wait. I know there are those of you out there, you foul-mouthed and uncouth so-called “women” who may cry “What convenience, comrade, that you insist our revolution wait until after this coming, perhaps pivotal, election!”
I do wish you would not say “revolution”, my pitiable ones. It is not seemly.
I merely beseech you. Look to the moustache. It could not lead us astray, for truly, above all else, it wants us to know that it has a lot of feelings.
Today at 12.51pm many New Zealanders observed a two minutes’ silence for Canterbury.
I was at the park on Lambton Quay outside Astoria. It was lovely and solemn and quiet and some people were holding an NZ flag and it was really eerily quiet, besides the sound of the buses going up and down Lambton Quay (because even being able to leave work at a particular time to stand in a park being silent involves having some privilege).
You decided to fire up your fucking amp with your fucking Twin Peaks-esque backing track and crank out a shitty, “mournful” 4 iterations of Amazing Fucking Grace on your fucking trumpet.
Fuck you for making our observance an opportunity for you to perform.
Fuck you for turning a wonderfully secular moment into Christian-focused schmaltz and fuck you for probably just assuming it would be “respectful” because why the fuck should you, old white man, even fucking consider that non-Christians may have suffered and died in the earthquake, or that non-Christians might be showing their fucking respects to?
Fuck you for not even being a good fucking player and using the social pressure of a silent observance of respect to force people to stand and listen to your utterly shitty near-missing of notes and mangling of timing and melody.
Fuck you for leaving me not moved, and not reverential of the tragedy that has occurred, and not feeling a common bond with other Kiwis, but fucking pissed off because you fucking chose to insert yourself into a community’s poignant ritual.
Fuck you for deciding your loud, intrusive way of “showing respect” – as I’m sure you fucking thought you were doing – trumped everyone else’s fucking right to just have a moment’s fucking silence.
This wasn’t fucking about you. Fuck you.