The New York Times ends the year as it began: spreading ghoulish abortion propaganda.
On New Year’s Eve last year, the NYT’s own ombudsman (who no longer works there now) exposed a false, sloppy, and unrepentant pro-abortion propaganda packaged as a New York Times Magazine cover story on abortion in El Salvador by freelance writer Jack Hitt. The sensational piece alleged that women there had been thrown in prison for 30-year terms for having had abortions. Hitt described his visit to one of them, inmate Carmen Climaco. “She is now 26 years old, four years into her 30-year sentence” for aborting an 18-week-old fetus.
Turned out Climaco was convicted of infanticide; the main source for Hitt’s story (which he did not disclose) was a pro-abortion group that would profit from legalized abortion in El Salvador since it sells abortion vacuum aspirators; and court documents exposing Climaco’s lies were (contrary to Hitt’s claims) readily available and accessible.
To book-end the year with all the ghoulish abortion propaganda that’s fit to print, the NYT last week printed this chilling and stomach-turning essay by University of Iowa writing professor Brian Goedde, who shares his festive thoughts on his girlfriend’s abortion on New Year’s Eve a few year’s ago:
It’s New Year’s Eve a few years back: candles are lighted in Emily’s “cozy one-bedroom” apartment, iTunes shifts seamlessly from the Magnetic Fields to Maria Callas to Nina Simone, and although we love to look out her second-story windows at the packs of people clamoring between bars and parties, and although we half-made plans to go to bars and parties ourselves, there’s no way we’re going out. The abortion is scheduled for two days from now, and we’re holing up.
We don’t, however, want to cancel the holiday altogether. Emily found a recipe for Chinese dumplings — pork (we use Gimme Lean soy mush), green cabbage, green onions, soy sauce and sesame oil, wrapped up in little purselike pastries. They’re eaten on the Chinese New Year, Emily says, in order to bring good fortune. Good fortune for our childless year.
Goedde spends more time worrying about the fate of the New Year’s dumplings he and his girlfriend are cooking than the fate of the unborn life he helped create. He relates how they told lies to keep their private decision private–well, except for the fact that he blabbed about it to score a byline in the NYTimes:
Over the course of the evening, a few friends call. Each time I say something like, “You know, we were going to go out, but Emily’s just not feeling well.”
This is true. She has been nauseated for almost a month. I tell them, “We’re just going to stay in and stay warm.”
Emily listens carefully from the other room. The abortion is no one’s business but ours, we’ve decided.
Then there’s this twisted bit of illogic in the girlfriend’s refusal to drink champaign because it might, well, harm the unborn baby they’re about to get rid of:
At midnight we’re thankful for the partygoers who haven’t reached their destinations. Shouts of “Happy new year!” come up to us from the rolling party on the sidewalk. I take our Champagne to the window and pop it; we kiss, toasting, “To us.”
Emily has only a sip. She doesn’t want to drink while pregnant. “It’s just not something you do,” she says. Even though the pregnancy is scheduled to be terminated in two days, there’s still something — someone? — inside of her she doesn’t want to hurt. I’m utterly baffled but mask it with a respectful, if distant, “O.K.” I don’t want to ruin the mood.
Could it get worse? Yes:
We do the dishes, blow out the candles, put a teaspoon handle down the Champagne bottle’s neck (to keep the carbonation — it seems to work) and put the bottle in the fridge, brush our teeth, climb into bed and have unprotected sex.
“I’m not going to get more pregnant,” Emily says.
I’ve never felt pleasure more guiltily.
At least he didn’t disguise his reckless self-indulgence with the environmental sanctimony of the “Save the Planet! Kill your fetus” miscreants.
“The fewer the merrier,” you know.