Gee, Mary, Is That How You Think It Works? Welcome To Your Father's America.

NEW YORK - The decision to become pregnant and raise a child with her female partner was not political, Mary Cheney, a daughter of Vice President Dick Cheney, told a Barnard College audience.

"This is a baby," Cheney said Wednesday at a forum sponsored by Glamour magazine. "This is a blessing from God. It is not a political statement. It is not a prop to be used in a debate by people on either side of an issue. It is my child."

You know, you ignorant bint, there's more than a few women who think that their reproductive choices shouldn't be anybody else's business. And, beyond that, I kind of think that Terry Schiavo's husband thought that, "This is my wife. She's not a political statement. She's not a prop to be used in a debate by people on either side of an issue. She's my wife." There are sick Americans who could be cured by research using stem cellls from tissue that's going to be discarded anyway. I kind of think that they'd say, "This is my health. I'm not a political statement. I'm not a prop to be used in a debate by people on either side of an issue. I'm a human being who'll die without this research." And, of course, as you well know, there are gay people out there who love each other and want to get married. They'd gladly tell Glamour Magazine that, "This is our love life. We're not a political statement. We're not a prop to be used in a debate by people on either side of an issue. We're just two people who love each other and want to get married."

And, hey, Mary! Guess what you privileged, protected, punk? Your fucking father and his fucking marionette in the WH disagree! They think that THEY, not you, have the right to make your reproductive choices, and to make medical end-of-life decisions for Terry Schiavo, and to prevent stem cell research, and to define marriage as "between a man and a woman" -- all in the name of placating some whackjob, woman-hating, gay-fearing fundies in order to harvest their votes and their donations. In fact, that's your daddy's base, although, as you well know, he holds them in as much contempt as he seems to hold 99% of the electorate.

And, gee, Mary, you filthy-souled sell-out to your gender, guess what else? You support that! You worked on your daddy's campaign. You didn't give a speech and say that Focus on the Family is a bunch of dirty-minded busybodies who have no business sticking their noses into America's vagina. You didn't issue a statement saying that Terry Schiavo's family ought to be left the fuck alone. No, Mary, you, you ugly-spirited sow, you are what we call a collaborator.

And, hey, guess what else, Mary, you moron! You may have thought, as all collaborators do, that your collaboration and your position of privilege would protect you. Yeah, poor women, black women, -- other people -- maybe the patriarchs that you've supported would interfere in their lives, but not yours. Your daddy's rich and powerful and so you thought that you'd get to flout the rules that Focus on the Family lays down for those of us with wombs; your reproductive decisions, unlike those of all the rest of us, would be "personal matters," your "choice," and not a political prop.

Well, all I've got to say to you was said a long time ago by Bob Dylan:

Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn't you?
People'd call, say, "Beware doll, you're bound to fall"
You thought they were all kiddin' you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hangin' out
Now you don't talk so loud
Now you don't seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You've gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you're gonna have to get used to it
You said you'd never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but now you realize
He's not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And ask him do you want to make a deal?

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain't no good
You shouldn't let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain't it hard when you discover that
He really wasn't where it's at
After he took from you everything he could steal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They're drinkin', thinkin' that they got it made
Exchanging all kinds of precious gifts and things
But you'd better lift your diamond ring, you'd better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can't refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You're invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.

How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone?

Now shut the fuck up and quit complaining. You made your goddamn bed. Now sleep in it, bitch.