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The Charnel House of Blackmun
The right to choose in the City of Brotherly Love.


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You see, the alleged problem that got Dr. Gosnell in trouble was that some of the babies were allegedly not dead at the time the inchoate tissue that formed their tiny brains and spinal chords was allegedly ruptured and excised. And one of the incipient mothers died too, although as we like to say: Stuff happens. Once you accept the proposition of abortion pretty much on demand, including post-“birth,” this seems to us a distinction without a difference, but there’s no accounting for the lengths to which you Christianist Javerts will go in order to hunt down innocent women’s-health specialists.

And talk about judgmentalism! Get a load of this, also from the grand-jury report:

This case is about a doctor who killed babies and endangered women. What we mean is that he regularly and illegally delivered live, viable, babies in the third trimester of pregnancy — and then murdered these newborns by severing their spinal cords with scissors. The medical practice by which he carried out this business was a filthy fraud in which he overdosed his patients with dangerous drugs, spread venereal disease among them with infected instruments, perforated their wombs and bowels — and, on at least two occasions, caused their deaths. Over the years, many people came to know that something was going on here. But no one put a stop to it.

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You bet no one put a stop to it. Because if there’s one thing we can’t have, it’s inspectors traipsing around abortion clinics, making sure all the bureaucratic niceties are observed — as if docs have time for stuff like that when there’s a world of babies about to be “born,” waiting to be scissored to death. Give a provider a break! Oversight would just scare away the poor, often underage, mostly minority women who brave the throngs of screaming hate-filled “pro-lifers” in order to exercise their Right to Choose. When 41 percent of the pregnancies in New York City are mercifully terminated, as they were in 2009, we know we’re doing something right, and we simply cannot rest until that number reaches 100 percent. What a defeat for the forces of intolerance that will be. What a thumb in the eye of the Archbishop of New York and that Nazi Pope in Rome, too!

While it’s true that the alleged details of Dr. Gosnell’s practice can make you squeamish right-wingers uncomfortable, our brave women are made of sterner stuff. They know the parasitic clumps of cells in their wombs — punishment-by-“baby” for the simple, innocent, joyous act of sexual intercourse — are being eliminated for a higher, nobler cause than mere Christianity. We progressives don’t believe in the afterlife, unless we’re trying to fake some sort of “faith” on television, but we do believe in, shall we say, an eternally resonating resonance that proclaims to the universe: We were here. We lived. We killed. Mission accomplished.

So thank you, former Rethuglican governor Tom Ridge, for your heroically pro-choice blind eye to what was allegedly going on in Philadelphia. There’s nobody we secular socialists like better than a nervous, sweaty RINO, politically correct even if it kills somebody. Code Yellow!

And thank you, Dick Nixon, for appointing Justice Blackmun, who was confirmed by the Senate to the Supreme Court by a vote of 94–0. Like so many others, Blackmun grew in office, converting to the side of the enlightened; he was welcomed to the side of truth, justice, and the Frankfurt School way by none other than William Kunstler. We couldn’t have done it without you, Harry.

Finally, thanks to my parents, the sainted “Che” Kahane and what’s-her-name, who bravely stood up to our own side and declined to have me aborted, because they knew — they just knew — that I would grow up to be the Stendhal of this particular charnel house (yes, I know, charterhouse, charnel house, what’s the difference, it’s the literary allusion that’s important to my peroration), granting me a temporary reprieve from the doom that awaits us all.

Which is why I’m so excited about my next movie project, loosely based on what allegedly happened in Philly, which I’m pitching to my agent later today. It’s part docu-drama, part homage. Part thrilling adventure story and part tale of moral uplift. She’s going to love it, and so are you:

Philadelphia Jones and the People’s Clinic of Doom — This Time, It’s Personal.

— Sitting in his hot tub at his palatial pad in Echo Park, David Kahane sometimes looks up at the stars at night and wonders why he was cursed with existence. Then he comes to his senses and has another beer. You can share your own horror stories of this hell on earth with him at [email protected] or by looking for the cover of Rules for Radical Conservatives on his Facebook page and begging to be his cellular-tissue “friend.”



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