Yesterday a fanciful preen at The Federalist spent a great deal of time and energy slathering Bill Buckley all over a screed meant to de-moralize Planned Parenthood. It is really strange. This post is as overwrought as they come. It goes: Fellow rages, Ye Christians, never mind the clinical misandry of pap smears and breast exams, or of dishing contraceptives. The real problem is that the gubmint Mengeles are mounting an attack on…Nature’s Bodily Essence. They are? Okay! But please tell us O Scribe, what is that, exactly? Eh what? You mean to say you’ve never ever heard of DEATH?
Forgive me for withdrawing from the outrage over recent videos released by the Center for Medical Progress. Don’t think I am not repulsed by them. Absolutely, I am. But what inhibits me from declaring my own revulsion is a disquieting belief that whether Planned Parenthood is defunded elides the true issue. Our righteous censure attends mainly to the symptoms of a disease we are loathe to cure.
At this point the yahoos I assume have already taken up cries of ‘hook ’em brains!’, with some excitedly shooting their guns at the ceiling, despite the mysterious appearance of ‘elide’ and the mistaken use of ‘loathe’. Still. Miss Mullarkey is too finicky-smart to give a Kardashian’s ass about pleasing a crowd. Or to care about abortion in particular. Malarkey instead here has got an argument-bone to pick with the arrogance of post-Victorian ways. Though no one else would bother, outside of grad student philosophers, she would like to start a discussion on the wisdom of science. And on the doomed practice of continuing to live. Would you look at this stupid country! America simply refuses to lay down quietly and naturally and, godfully, go and die. Hospitals, are you kidding me?
That hidden root disorder is our denial of mortality. Modern technical prowess drives the defiance with a welcome roster of desperate appliances, from pacemakers and dialysis machines to artificial hearts and lungs.
That dialysis machine you bought your sickly niece? It is a “desperate appliance.” Why do you daily disgrace the young woman with her own life, Uncle? You’d do better to let her linger in pain than leave her hooked up to such a boorish contraption. Who’s with me?
Celebrated technical successes, born of biomedical refusal to accept mortal limits, encourage us to view our bodies as machines that can be rebuilt. Not only do we have synthetic joint replacements—an undeniable boon— but living tissue, as well.
Once a bone is broken that’s it, it’s done. All over. Something like a femur could never be re-built. You can’t simply sit there and grow a proper one, idiots. What do you think you are, a computer? Grow up. And if your own liver happens to fail how stupid would it be to try and put someone else’s in its place? Why can’t you learn to be more polite? Why can’t you accept “mortal limits” even if “doctors” and “research” long ago re-defined such things? You got sick loser, remember? Just die already. Really, you are quite gross.
Hubris prompts us to approach organ transplant with the same ease of conscience that accompanies an old Subaru into the body shop for a new carburetor or a remanufactured manual transmission.
Arrogance beyond description. You think you can just pull into a Kaiser Permanente station and have them bolt on a second-hand lung. What for, incidentally? To go on living for another half-century? A typical caveman only lasted for about 25 years, so what in the world are you doing? Do you even know? Can’t you see?