Nice mumu, fat-ass

When the news surfaced nine months ago that Nickelodeon’s then-sexteen superstar Jamie Lynn Spears was in the family way, my initial reaction was to a) check the Polaroids of teenage girls I’d successfully lured into the back of my van with the promise of a free iPod, then b) thank the Gods of Statutory Love that this was one paternity suit I wouldn’t lose due to damnable DNA evidence. Still, even as the lump cleared from my throat I couldn’t help but feel a little pang of sympathy for Jamie Lynn and whoever the unlucky gym teacher or mall janitor it was that covered her mouth with a chloroform-soaked rag, dragged her behind a dumpster then proceeded to sow his seeds into the fertile ground that lurked beneath her Hello Kitty panties. Because as years of first-hand experience had taught me, teenage pregnancy is a serious matter. It can blight the once-bright future of a would-be mother who is still but a child herself; or it can ruin the career and marriage and result in jail time for a 36-year-old drill press operator whose only REAL crime was loving too much — too soon — and forgetting to pull out after. So I hope Jamie Lynn will forgive me for my initial reaction, which was to post this missive suggesting that she and her unnamed statutory baby-daddy do what I would have done in their shoes – namely, go down to Planned Parenthood and Hoover that womb-crawler like it was something my cat coughed up, then go on with their unencumbered lives.

But I do think part of the problem is that people don’t fully UNDERSTAND abortion. If you were to believe all the pro-life literature stuck to your windshield after a NASCAR race you’d think you were committing some horrible, unnatural act. Not the case at all. Abortion can be just as beautiful and natural as childbirth itself. It doesn’t have to be a psyche-scarring grim medical procedure carried out behind the rubber curtain of some dirty free clinic’s back room. Light some scented candles, put on some Enya and voila! It’s now a beautiful moment shared between you and your partner. Hell, why not take some pictures and upload them to your Flickr account? Instead of racking yourselves with guilt over terminating the life of what would’ve been your own flesh and blood, why not celebrate the fact that you’ve rid your body of a freakish-looking parasite that would’ve essentially ruined your lives? And make no mistake, fetuses are FREAKISH looking. They’re like an H.R. Giger painting brought to life by black magic, smeared down with placenta then shoved into some poor girl’s vagina. If you saw one of those things coming at you out of some dark alley your first reaction would be to swat it with a stick until nothing’s left but a greasy little stain on the sidewalk. So why make these grand distinctions when the thing’s actually living inside you, robbing your body of precious nutrients, biding its time until the moment it’s ready to burst out of you in a gory display that would make Eli Roth erect with envy — and thus rendering your cooch so saggy and ruined that barring expensive vaginoplasty, no man will ever love you or want to be with you again?

Still, all that said, I respect Jamie Lynn’s decision to ignore my advice and carry her ‘lil oopsy to term, regardless of how irresponsible a decision it was. Don’t get me wrong; babies are wonderful. They provide literally hours of entertainment, have malleable skulls than can be molded into a variety of shapes, and will eat pretty much anything you stick in their mouths. But as Jamie Lynn will soon realize, once the fun wears off all you’re left with is a cone-headed, whiny little pants-shitter with a mouth full of coffee grounds and 100% dependence on YOU for the next seventeen years. You can’t just lay down some food in a bowl, install a cat-door and let them fend for themselves. You need to be there 24-7; which means while all your little teeny-bopper friends are off doing ecstasy and binge-drinking and flashing their titties to frat boys in the hopes of getting invited into the cabin of a Lake Havasu party-boat for some semi-consentual triple-penetration, YOU have to stay home and change diapers. It ain’t glamorous. It ain’t fun. But for better or worse, it’s now your life, Jamie Lynn. And I hope that you – unlike your fat semi-retarded sister – are ready to live up to the responsibility.

Ronnie Pudding is a semi-professional screenwriter, kickboxer and drill press operator who resides in Van Nuys, CA. His film PYTHON V: SLITHERING DEATH premieres in lesser-known video stores everywhere on September 12th.

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