Nadya Suleman must die. Not tomorrow, not six months from now, and certainly not in a time frame that would allow her to give birth to another child. Now. Ms. Suleman, mother of six, recently shat forth a litter of eight additional genetic inferiorities to her already teeming household, making it a total of fourteen wee ones without a known father, or working parent of any kind. Yes, as expected, Nadya is unemployed. Living off grants, welfare, parental support, and likely a great deal of back alley blowjobs, this vile, wicked beast — a woman more detrimental to the social fabric than a busload of desperate Al Qaeda – is, as her own family describes, “addicted to children.” If she’s not spreading for the next available assistant manager from Arby’s, Grease Monkey service tech, or Deep Rock delivery dope, she’s seducing the medical establishment into believing that she is the perfect candidate for IVF, the increasingly first, middle, and last resort for the baby-obsessed masses. How she paid for these treatments – and delivery – is currently unknown, but like so many of her ilk (and there is an ilk, even if her identity is still a mystery**), she finds a way for others to do her bidding.
And now, as if the perpetually pregnant young Nadya hadn’t already sufficiently warmed our hearts with a level of responsibility unseen even if the most dire of neighborhoods, she is asking for $2 million to tell her story. Oh, but it’s not for her, you see. Altruistic little darling that she is, the cash is intended to cover the costs of raising her blessed events, though one imagines the figure growing in the months to come as she begins to see luxuries as necessities, like so many who roar to the heavens about economic injustice, yet never fail to have budgeted for scratch tickets, cell phones, and fancy nails at the local salon. Weaves are optional.
Nadya is hardly alone, though. Is she not like that one young lass, tattooed eyebrows and all, who spent a good portion of your local news broadcast sobbing about the cut in food stamps, all while tickling her cursed beast mere feet from a laptop, HD television, and video game console? Or maybe she’s the crispy-haired sweetheart at the grocery store a few years back; you know, the one who held up the line for fifteen minutes using the state’s generosity to cover her brat’s formula, yet couldn’t help but buzz through the line at the lottery machine, where boyfriend du jour’s only delay was the difficulty in pulling a wad of drug-related $20 bills from his faded jeans?
Having babies, raising babies, and sending babies out into a suffocating globe of immense despair is bad enough – and sufficiently sinful to earn the enmity of the selflessly child-free (say “-less” and I’ll break your arm), but I’ll go one further: since asking the irresponsible multitude to stop breeding is wildly implausible – as is the preferred method of forced, painful sterilization – let’s start at the simple, realistic, reasonable square one and insist that at minimum, the poor and uneducated be forbidden from doing anything other than menial work for their betters. After all, we’re only overpopulated in the areas of the world least likely to have indoor plumbing, libraries, graffiti-free walls, and unbarred windows.
In fact, those with advanced degrees, vibrant intellects, and actual savings accounts are having fewer children these days, proving as conclusively as night follows day that starting a family is pretty much the exclusive domain of the carny, the ghetto rat, or the unemployed halfwit who sees non-procreating related effort as optional when it comes to putting food on the table. The social statistics bear this out, as does history, the novel, and mere casual observation. So if you are one of the chosen few who is educated, solvent, and not in the queue at bankruptcy court, and either with-child or already there, you do exist and deserve exemption, but I’ll leave it to your own conscience whether or not sharing a lifestyle with the unwashed is worth touting in mixed company.
Call it the human thing to do if you wish, or the biological imperative, but it’s unavoidable nonetheless: having kids – one or two or ten – is pretty much the trashiest thing you can do without actually exchanging crack for anal. Though you are not as bad or as dirty as Nadya, you live on the same street, and have more in common with her lot than any of the unburdened in your current social circle. If you happened to meet a child-free physicist, professor, and literary agent at a BBQ, and were then interrupted by a knuckle-dragging bingo babe with strollers, diaper bags, and formula in tow, you’d have a more lasting, empathetic conversation with the cretin. You’ll deny it, but tell yourself this the next time you “entertain” with your fellow parents. Try and go five minutes without mentioning how well your boy did in pre-school soccer. You know, how he managed to stay on the field this time, and only lose his shorts twice? Impossible? Indeed. Parents are a cult more damning than Jonestown. Remember, the creepy Satanists wanted Rosemary’s baby, not hersubscription to the New York Review of Books.
But if you insist that living the dream can include kids and not make you psychotic, I’ll temporarily suspend judgment and send it back to the fertility nuts. All of you fuckers are mad, but madness can be measured, and its severity is certainly more present in the woman who already feeds her half-dozen crackers and Jarritos and seems unconcerned that eight more will worsen the diet. Baby worship can exist in many forms, but never more painfully than in the unsustainable notion that more is better. Yes, religion is to blame for most of this, as we’ve classified the most natural thing on earth “miraculous,” but it’s gone beyond the idea that Jesus sanctions each and every phallic dip in the vaginal pool. It’s everywhere, and it stands to reason that at some point, the predisposed will take it all to its (il)logical conclusion and infantilize the whole rotten enterprise.
The tide turned the first time an otherwise sane man appeared in public with a snugglie and didn’t backhand the shrewish hen who made him leave his nutsack bedside. It happened again when the first teacher entered the profession not out of a love of learning, but perverse need to be around children, further eroding a dying art and leaving it in the hands of glorified babysitters. And again when rational adults had to schedule fucking “date night” like zit-faced teenagers, all so they wouldn’t walk into traffic before breakfast. And yet again when the blue-noses and moral scolds upheld authoritarian means to spare the kiddies tits, sex, profanity, or even the hint that life wasn’t a backpack full of rainbows and granted wishes.
We’re a people in denial, and in too deep to care. We self-censor, repress, glorify, and sanctify, all at once, and never for the right reasons. We can land on the moon, find Saddam in a hole the size of a linen closet, and provide precise details on a star in a galaxy deemed theoretical, and we’re still dumbfounded as to how we can stop treating ourselves like farm animals. Where are the black-ops experts in the parenting realm, where shadows in the night break through, slip under, and dash around all the obstacles to steal away the Nadyas of the world, leaving them alive, yes, but mere husks of barrenness? Aren’t her sixteen buggers proof positive that mental illness has swept away the last vestiges of sweet sanity? What civilization not steeped in barbarism would ever suggest that it cannot decree a maximum? A limit? A last straw before we send in the medical instruments? In the end, the only hope is for the voices of clarity to speak with more authority than the bumbling class. Redefine and re-articulate; dispense with euphemism and be not afraid of attack.
A good start is the so-called “abortion debate.” Take pro-choice, for example. I was once one of these fence-sitting devils, but I’ve left that in the sandbox. It’s pro-abortion from here on, as “choice” implies I want anyone to avoid the suction tube. Get thee to an abortionist, or you’re as bad as the lifers. The only choice I want you to have is during which trimester you’re going to submit to the procedure. You blew the choice thing when you lied to your man about being on the pill. It’s a small gesture and more language than action, but it’s a start. A sufficiently bold-type opening salvo than can weed out the half-hearted. It’s an uphill climb to be sure in this Nadya Nation, but strike a blow where you can. Cut out parents from your list of friends; sniff and roll your eyes whenever you encounter kids at the mall; donate to abortionists as you would a church; flip off a school bus at every opportunity; waste your seed again and again in masturbatory excess. Hell, avoid fucking altogether if you have to. It’s all good, and all up to you. And if Nadya should meet with a suspicious, fiery “one-car” accident on some lonely, Silkwood stretch of road, raise a fist for justice. And hope she brought the kids.
**Update – turns out she’s the spawn of some Whittier weirdo and her Iraqi husband. And she’s had plastic surgery to look more like Angelina Jolie. So her ilk is psycho. I’d like to say she’s Latina, but unfortunately, the gods aren’t that kind. This time.