I was over on Revelife the other day, reading people’s comments about abortion, and I noticed one lady’s comment had zero logic in it.  So I replied to it.  Then she replied back.  And then I replied back.  And she and another pro-abortionist replied back.  The main case being argued between us was whether or not being pro-choice necessarily means you are pro-abortion.  Anyway, here, let’s start from the beginning:

Pro-Abortion Lady #1: “I doubt anyone is pro-abortion. Abortion is an option, the same way chemotherapy is.”

Me: “Chemotherapy is an option (as it should be), as is legalized murder (as it should NOT be).  To say that you are pro- anything but you don’t necessarily support that thing–that is hypocrisy.  If you are pro-choice, you are for allowing women the choice to execute a ‘living human’ (as medical textbooks define fetuses) that has a right to life, according to the Constitution.  If you are an advocate of people making the CHOICE to abort babies, then you are an advocate of people ABORTING babies; and if you are an advocate of people aborting babies, you are an advocate of abortion.  That means pro-abortion.  If you are FOR legal abortions, you are PRO-abortion.  Saying you are pro-choice just makes you sound selfish.’  [And then I gave her this quote:] “To promote choice for its own sake is more akin to self-indulgence than self-determination. It is the philosophy of a pre-schooler in a candy shop.” – Brian Pollard, M.D. (Not that he’s famous, but I gotta give credit where it’s due; he’s got it dead-on.)

Pro-Abortion Lady #1: “If you are for eating Big Macs, then you are for animal cruelty. See how little sense that makes?“

Me: If you are FOR eating Big Macs, then you are PRO-eating Big Macs.  That’s the correct analogy.  If you are FOR abortions, then you are PRO-abortion.  If you are FOR eating Big Macs, then you are PRO-eating Big Macs.  Your analogy was way off.  [My explanation for why it is way off  comes later; just keep reading.]

And she hasn’t responded yet, but give her time.  Then Pro-Abortion Lady #2 came in and gave me a different but equally illogical analogy to someone else.

Pro-Abortion Lady #2: “I’m going to assume that if you think people should be allowed to own guns, you’re pro-murder.”

Me: “Nope.  Pro-self-defense.  If I were pro-murderers-owning-guns, yes, I’d be pro-murder.”

Pro-Abortionist #2: “A life is a life.  And there’s no way to dictate the choices of an individual.  Last I checked, psych evaluations were not a part of receiving a gun license.”

Me: “You are 100% correct.  And science and medical textbooks define a fetus as an early stage of human life.  And as you said, a life is a life.  A fetus meets all the legal and medical requirements in order for something to be considered ‘alive,’ and it also meets all the biological requirements in order for it to be considered human.  The Constitution says every human (a fetus is a human; it’s not a cat) has the ‘right to life.’  Abortion directly takes away that human’s right to life.  The point I was trying to make was this: [Abortion Lady #1] took my statement, ‘Being FOR abortion means you are PRO abortion,’ and compared that statement to, ‘Being FOR gun ownership means you are FOR murder.’  And I corrected her.  That analogy is way off, logically.  She also said this: ‘If you are for eating Big Macs, then you are for animal cruelty.’  Again, the logic is off.  If you are FOR eating Big Macs, you are PRO eating Big Macs.  It’s that simple.  And if you are FOR people aborting their babies, then you are PRO abortion.  Again, it’s that simple.  She [Pro-Abortion Lady #1] doesn’t know how to use analogies correctly.”  

She hasn’t responded to this one, but, like the other lady, we must give her time.  But I did notice that Pro-Abortion Lady #2 wrote something to someone else:

Pro-Abortion Lady #2:  “Prove that a fetus physically dependent on another being should have rights equal to that of the being it is dependent upon.  And note that I said physically dependent, not socially.

I joined in.

Me: “You are aware that even a one-week-old newborn is PHYSICALLY dependent on his mother, right?  Isn’t that a known thing?  If physical dependency is the only reason to be for abortion, then that means you have no problem killing a 6-month-old or a 2-day-old or a 3-week-old.”

Pro-Abortion Lady #2: “Again, there’s a difference between physical and social independence.  I do not believe that a being which is solely dependent upon one other being—and has no other option of dependency—should have rights equal to that being.”

Are you ready for this one, people?  Are you ready?

Me: “Let’s say there are two conjoined twins, Bob and Carl.  They are 22 years old.  They COULD have been safely separated at birth, but the parents thought for some reason to just let them stay conjoined–maybe saying it’s God’s or nature’s will or something.  Regardless, the babies stay conjoined, alright?  The twins have lived a healthy life up till now, but now they decide they both want to have their own families and get married, okay?  So they decide to get surgically separated.  One problem: because of puberty years ago, their bodies have grown/changed in such a way that Carl is now physically dependent on Bob for his own survival; if they get separated, Carl will die.  Bob still wants to live a separate life from Carl, though.  Your opinion, in your own words, is that any being who is solely dependent on another in order to live does not deserve equal rights as the being he is dependent on.  So, according to your view, Bob has the right to end the life of Carl, who depends on Bob to live?“

Oh my word, I can’t wait for her response.

[EDIT, April 21, 2009]

Okay, so Pro-Abortion Lady #2 responded!  You ready for it?  Here it is:

Pro-Abortion Lady #2: “Well, that would be the million dollar question: Does the physical dependency go both ways?  Most conjoined twins have this issue…one is physically capable of living as a separate being, while the other is not.  Parents usually have to choose.  But to answer your question: Yes.  If Bob is the sole physical supporter of Carl, and such a dependent relationship cannot be transplanted to another individual, or Carl is incapable of existing on his own, I think Bob has every right to decide that he no longer wants to continue what is, by scientific definition, a parasitic relationship.  [And then she asked me this:] Would you say Bob should be forced by law to continue being a conjoined twin for the rest of his existence?”

Me: “And so you think Bob does have the right to kill Carl, his full-grown adult conjoined brother?  You do realize that that is murder, right?  And that it’s illegal?  The only difference between that and abortion is that baby’s are defenseless.  Let’s be clear: in a complete sentence, do you think Bob has the right to kill Carl?  Yes, Bob has the right to kill Carl, or no, Bob does not have the right to kill Carl.  I mean, I know what you wrote, but I can’t believe anybody but a deranged criminal would have that opinion, so I’m just trying to make sure I have it straight.  If you really do think that, does that mean you think Carl is not a living human?  Here’s a great question: Let’s imagine Bob and Carl are YOUR sons.  Would you be okay with Bob killing Carl?  After all, the fact that Carl is attached to Bob and cannot live otherwise means Carl doesn’t have a right to life, according to what you say.  Right?  So, mother of Bob and Carl: Does Bob have your blessing in killing Carl?  [And then, in response to her question, 'Would you say Bob should be forced by law to continue being a conjoined twin for the rest of his existence?' I wrote this:] Yes, I DO think Bob should be forced to not murder his brother Carl.  If that means having to continue being conjoined to Carl, so be it.  At least a murder was prevented.”

     Then I asked Pro-Abortion Lady #1 the same question about Bob and Carl, the conjoined twins.  Let’s wait and see what she says.

     These past three or four months I’ve had a strong desire to invent something; been trying to think up something that everybody could benefit from, regardless of age, race, gender, sexual orientation, religion, or whatever diseases one may carry.  I finally settled on the perfect idea maybe two weeks ago, an invention I like to call Pyew-B-Gone (patent pending).  It’s a clear liquid that you drink daily, a little thicker than water, and the desired effect is to make one’s bowel movements odorless. 
     After I came up with the purpose and name, I invented it; that is, I am longer in the going-to-be-invent-it stage, but the have-now-officially-invented-it stage.  I’ve been drinking it for the past six days, 8 ounces of the stuff every morning, and now, finally, I have seen the actual effects (for some reason I didn’t poop at all during those six days).  On the bright side, the purpose of Pyew-B-Gone has been met: my bowel movement was completely free of any sort of odor at all.  On the downside, it was one of the most painful bouts of diarrhea I’ve ever had in my life.
     If you’re interested in purchasing a 2-liter bottle of Pyew-B-Gone, I can be reached via e-mail, or simply send me a comment or message here on Xanga.  Remember to ask about the 14-day trial offer.

Sometimes, yes, of course.  Several examples:
     Is it reasonable to be angry with Charles Manson since you (hopefully) disagree that he was helping God and since you disagree with him about killing people?  I think it’s very reasonable.
     Is it reasonable to be angry at irresponsibility?  Of course it is.
     Reasonable to be angry at 3- to 4,000 unnecessary infant deaths a day? Sure thing.
     Is it reasonable to be angry at people who are angry that we want to take away the “right” to kill 4,000 babies a day? Whoever says that it’s unreasonable to be angry at this, frankly, doesn’t deserve the right to life, the right to liberty, or the right to pursue happiness.

[Note: A friend of mine wrote a Xanga entry on which I left a big ol' long comment.  The big ol' long comment was something I'd like to put here as an actual entry, though, 'cause it's something I'm pretty outspoken about even outside of Xanga.  So here is my edited comment, edited for any irrelevance in the original.]

My friend: “I want to be alive and I want to live and I want someone to be adventurous with [and] I want someone to be okay with the fact that I’m a free spirit.”

Me: “Do you want to be ‘alive’ as in live materialistically and free from morals?  ‘Cause that’s usually what people mean when they say that sort of thing, but [in the next paragraph] you chastise that sort of lifestyle, the life of living for and giving in to all your desires.  And is this also what you mean by ‘adventurous’ and calling yourself a ‘free spirit’?  A lot of people think it’s impossible to be a good person and an ‘adventurous’ person.  These people these days, the most creative they can get when trying to think of ‘fun’ or ‘adventurous’ things to do is to have a party in which everybody does nothing aside from getting drunk and screwing whoever’s sitting next to them.  And that’s all the fun they can ever think up.  Where’s the variety?  Where’s the adventure they’re so craving?  I think it sounds less like freedom and more like being trapped in a cage of monotony, a slave to the stereotypical.”

My friend: “Material objects are just objects.  Sure, it’d be great to have that $770 pair of [shoes]…but that’s not what I truly want and truly value.”

Me: “Good to hear you say something like that!  You’re right that material things won’t make you complete.  Humans have a spiritual property, a soul, so there is no possible way that earth, a place with nothing but material, can supply what we actually need.  And there is no possible way a human can supply what we actually need because humans are flawed, as we’ve all seen.  Sex doesn’t give us what we need; just what we want.  Drugs, beer, money, jewelry….We may want it, but it’s all entirely unnecessary and it all rots away eventually.  Nothing but a perfect spiritual ‘something’ can make us feel complete and be complete.”

[So there's yet another entry about today's youth, with an extra little ditty about materialism.] 

This is what one supporter of abortion said in an anti-Obama group when the comments began to gravitate towards abortion (I corrected punctuation and added a few bracketed words for clarity, but other than that, the words remain the same; apologies for his vulgarity):

“Alright, suppose after a night on the town, you bring a ‘lucky girl’ back to you’re place after she’s way too drunk to make any real decisions. You aren’t taking advantage of her [though] because you’re shitfaced too. She doesn’t mention anything as far as protection before you have sloppy, drunk sex, and you don’t take it upon yourself to wear one because you ‘really don’t like the feel. She calls you back later, saying she’s pregnant. Will you say, ‘Don’t you dare abort it! You better have it tear open your vagina! Now that my cum, which I didn’t put in a condom, [has] attached to your eggs, abandon you’re career and your future dreams, bitch, cause it’s living now, even though its a fuckin tadpole!’ Beautiful, isn’t it? This is what God wants? ‘Oh well, at least its alive’. Yeah, great. Look at some of the people that make mistakes like that: mostly teenagers. I’m obviously not saying its exactly like this every time, but are teenagers going to be able to raise a child very well?”

This seems to be the common attitude among Americans today, especially young people, and it makes me ashamed of my country.
     But let’s answer his questions for him:
     Will I insist the girl allow the baby to live? The baby that is just as much mine as it is hers? Yes. After all, we both acted incredibly irresponsibly that night, and what kind of society are we that we believe we should not have to take responsibility for our actions, whether those actions were accidental or intentional? If you make a mistake, you need to deal with the consequences instead of taking the cowardly, easy way out.
      As far as teenagers go, if they feel they cannot take care of their baby, give it to another couple who actually deserve him/her, maybe to a couple who cannot conceive and who want nothing in the world but a baby. Isn’t that the more loving act? To not only permit your child to live, but to also give an infertile couple a much-wanted gift?
      What kind of society are we that we value convenience or a good job over an invaluable life; that we fight so hard for mere convenience or a good job that we will do anything it takes, even snuff out the life of a baby, in order to achieve it?

     Something very horrible and embarrassing happened to me today.  But I, with my grapefruit-sized balls (courage), am going to “bare all,” as they say.  Before I tell you that story, though, I must first tell you a slightly less funny story:
     I am good friends (and we like each other, tee-hee) with this Xangan.  She lives in Canada.  I will be visiting her from December 12 to 15; taking a bus the whole way up, using all the money I will have so far made from babysitting (more on babysitting later).  So today I made calls to the Canadian Embassy and Greyhound and some other places, just to double-check the info I’d already got.  The last place I called was the Regional Passport Office in D.C. to check if I needed a passport (turns out I don’t, thank goodness).  I called and reached a menu (of course): “For English, press one,” and all that absurd, illegal-immigrant-caused crap. 
     Then I reached another menu, telling me to press one for info on this, two for info on that; three, four, five, and six for other stuff.  It was the seventh option that disturbed me: “To learn more about Canada’s preparation for an avian flu pandemic, press eight.”
    

Now, before I go on to the next story, the funnier story, I have to give you a quick bit of an update:
     I don’t believe I mentioned it here on Xanga–though I do know I’ve told some a’ you on the phone–but I began a fulltime babysitting job last Monday (the 16th or 17th or something).  It’s a  ten-hours-per-day job, Monday through Friday, two hundred dollars a week, and I get paid even if the mother has a whole week off from her job.  The mother is a girl I used to know when I was five and she was ten.  We lived across the hall from each other in an apartment complex.  She is now twenty-five and has two daughters: Arion, seven; and Nevaeh, four.  (Yes, they’re black.)  (Oh, and Nevaeh is “heaven” spelled backwards.)  What happens is I drop Arion off at the bus stop in the morning and watch Nevaeh all day till 3:45, at which point I pick Arion up from the bus stop and watch the both of them till 6- or 6:30, when either their mother or grandmother comes home to relieve me.
     And now the fun begins:
     Nevaeh takes a nap everyday for around two hours.  She usually does it on the couch and I usually sleep on the opposite couch and set an alarm on my phone so I don’t oversleep (I’m a tired mofo during the day).  So I slept today, as usual.  I was having dreams that I really had to pee, and so I crawled into this huge toilet, completely submerging myself–even my head–and pushed my pee out really hard.  And as always happens in my pee dreams, it’s difficult to keep peeing.  I start and then stop, and then try to start again; it starts, but only stays streaming for a few seconds at a time, you know?   Anyway…I woke up from the dream, lying on my back, and I had to piss like a racehorse (and from what I hear about racehorses and their pissing fashion, that’s quite a lot of piss).  Now, normally when I have a pee dream, I check to see if I really did wet myself.  You know…just in case.  But this time I did not really feel any warmth or wetness.  I still had to pee, though, so I got up off the couch, and as I was getting up, I noticed an egg-sized dark spot near my jeans’ zipper. 
     Oh, holy cow, I thought.  Good thing that’s all I did!  And then after a few more steps, I realized, no, that wasn’t all I did.  I released a lot of pee, and it…went…everywhere.  See, I had been sleeping on my back, so that fact combined with the fact that I was practically an erupting geyser of urine made for one messy Chris: the pee came out, wet the entire front of my crotch area, poured down the sides of me (my hips and waist), soaked the entire lower half of my shirt; seeped underneath me, getting all up in my butt; and pooled down between the couch cushions.  And when I say I was soaked, I don’t mean I was wet.  I mean I was soaked.  My shirt, I could have rung it out and pee would have squirted from between my knuckles. 
     I was shocked, I was horrified, I was panicked: twenty years old and still peeing his pants, and only an hour left until I have to pick up Arion from the bus stop!  My house is about twenty minutes from their house, and I definitely needed a new shirt, pants, and underthings.  First thing I did was wipe off the top of the couch cushions, which, luckily, were leather.  The bottoms of the cushions, though, were cloth.  Crap.  So I soaked that up, woke up Nevaeh, told her we have to leave right now to get something from my house, laid some plastic wrapping on the seat of the truck, got home, noticed the pee still managed to soak into the truck seat, ran inside, stripped in the bathroom, wet a big ol’ towel with hot water, rubbed myself, dried myself, got dressed in a new shirt and pants and underthings, grabbed paper towel and a generic rip-off of Resolve carpet cleaner, cleaned the spot in the truck, rushed back to Nevaeh’s house, properly cleaned the couch, got back in the truck with Nevaeh, and drove to the bus stop three minutes before it arrived!  SUCCESS!!!!!  And the best part is nobody knows a thing except my mom (too funny not to tell her) and the Internet.

     And she just happens to be the White House Press Secretary.  Name’s Dana Perino.

Here she is taking control at a press briefing.  Foxy.

Here she is telling off a reporter.  Watch at least up to the 0:50 mark.  Foxy.

[Note: Back in the late '20s to the late '30s, America entered a depression.  President Franklin D. Roosevelt, in order to help end the depression, created the New Deal.  Take an economics class, ask any economics professor, and he'll tell you that, yes, although we were already in a depression, it was the New Deal that started the Great Depression.  Keep that in mind for later reference.]

     Any of you notice how, when people say they like Obama, their reasons are that he will “change things”?  And when they encounter McCain supporters, some of the Obamabots might say, “Well, we all have a right to our opinions.”  Yes, you do have a right to your opinion.  But what is your opinion?!  The only thing you like or even know about Obama is that he will “change things.”  That isn’t an opinion; that is believing what you think is a fact.  But what are your opinions on him in regards to his policies on this and this and that?  I think it’s probably hard for Obama supporters to give their opinion on him because we know so little about him or what his plans are: how can you have an opinion on something you know nothing about?  Obamabots hear the word change and are hypnotized to follow the person throwing that word around–Obama.  The people with sense, though, take the time to learn what exactly Obama wants to change, and to learn about the other guy, who wants to change and fix America.  Change can be bad; changing and fixing can only be great.
     Now, have any of you noticed how, when people say they like McCain, they have a whole list of reasons?  We know him and his history, he’s been tested under severe torture and has always done the honorable thing in those cases, he’s never associated with a terrorist (no, Obama wasn’t eight; this was in the mid-90s), he’s done this and this and this and this, all good things, and he doesn’t want to take our money and redistribute it to people who don’t have jobs (I don’t have a job, by the way, and I still realize Socialism is wrong), and blah, blah, blah.  We know McCain, and there’s very little bad and a whole lot of good you can say about him.  And that doesn’t compare to the heap of bad and almost-nothing good you can say about Obama.
     Barack Obama has already admitted that he made promises during his campaign that he now realizes were impossible to keep. 

     But it’s too late.  Mindless America voted.  Obama, like Roosevelt seventy years before him, will cause the next Great Depression.  There will be riots, and nobody will be able to defend themselves since Obama wants to take away people’s rights to own guns. 
     Way to go.

     Last few days, I’ve been glowing.  I mean, my skin, it’s like it’s translucent and someone’s placed a candle in my belly.  I’m a Chris-o’-lantern; that’s a good way to put it. 
     No, I’m not literally glowing.  Sorry to disappoint you.  But I have been smiling a lot; have been perky.  I’ve been quite a perk these last few days; a smiling perk.  I’m all giddy.  I’m happy and I’m excited, and that feels really good.  I pray it stays like this.  The whole “getting excited over nothing” thing is really getting old.  So I hope this ain’t nothing.  ‘Cause I sure am excited.  I’ve got myself a beautiful bird.

December 3, 2010.  Lookin’ forward to it.  Let’s wait and see if it turns out how I think it will.  I’ll let you guys know!  Just two years; be patient!

P.S. I just realized that some of you who have been reading this site for at least the past few months may have been expecting me to post a Photoshopped picture of my face on a pumpkin or something to that stupid effect.  Egh….Sorry to disappoint :-  This’s got nothing to do with Halloween. 

Oh, P.P.S. All you young folks out there–try not to get drunk.  Just think how proud of yourselves you’d be if you could resist it. 

^In case any party-goers just happen to stumble upon my site and care what I say, haha.  Figure, Hey, I could possibly save a life by typing that.  So.  ‘Night, all.

     I totally just ground up a huge hunk of cheese in the kitchen sink’s garbage disposal.  It made my life.  And when I say “ground up a huge hunk of cheese,” I mean that literally there was a handsome, muscular, life-sized man made entirely of cheese, and I put him into the kitchen sink’s garbage disposal piece by piece and ground him up thus.
     “Surely you jest, Christopher, surely!”
     Yes, my loves; yes, I do jest.  It was no handsome, muscular, life-sized man made entirely of cheese, but a mere block of cheese completely lacking in sex appeal.  Cheddar, to be exact.  Unfortunately, it is true that I did have to grind it up in the garbage disposal.  This is what happened:
     The fifty-ish black man that lives with us was talking to me in the kitchen about the benefits of DirecTV over Cable, and how I should go about transferring services.  I realized mid-conversation that my stomach wanted me to put something inside of it; so, as Ron the Black Man was going on about TV service, I turned around, opened the fridge, and pulled out the Ziploc baggie containing my brick of cheddar. 
     “…and just call them and say you want the same service Comcast is giving you, but that you also want….”
     I placed the cheese on a paper plate I had previously pulled from the cabinet (I didn’t bother telling you about my getting the paper plate, though, ’cause, well, who honestly cares to hear such a dull adventure as that?  But I really did get a paper plate; just trust me on this one), pulled out a knife, and cut the cheese.  The section I cut was about an inch tall by an inch deep by three inches long, and as I was pulling the knife out of the cheese to cut this new section into slices, the whole piece lifted up with the knife, fell back to the plate, and bounced off it and onto the floor.  Because God hates me.
     As we all know, the only place for a fallen-to-the-floor hunk of cheese is straight to the kitchen sink’s garbage disposal.  Putting my cheese into the mouth of that disposal was one of the sadder moments of my life, yes; but hitting the switch that activated the spinning, liquidizing, razor-sharp blades that would cut through the cheese’s bulkiness?  It was like Christmas for me.