For someone who once claimed that immigrants were decapitating U.S. citizens, the idea of topping yourself must be a daunting one, but the Governor of Arizona has done just that. By signing into a law a bill that says life begins two weeks before conception, Jan Brewer has effectively legalized time travel.

The bill specifically says that gestation begins on the first day after the last menstrual cycle of a woman (Uterus, ahoy!), which is a shame, really, because Rush Limbaugh is already so confused about women’s reproduction as is, but what it really says is, “Grab your sonic screwdriver and join me on the Holodeck. We have a sex to stop.”

I never saw the show Sliders while it was on the air, but as they were traveling through worm holes — which, of course, means time — did any of the characters happen to shout, “Falloooooopian tuuuuuubes?” Does anyone know? Was it John Rhys-Davies? When the bill was signed, did John Rhys-Davies show up in the legislative hall dressed as the Gimli The Dwarf from Lord of the Rings and ceremoniously below it out to a confused gathering of Grand Canyon State Senators? (If you’re interested in learning more, see also: My Wife is a Series of Fallopian Tubes: The Love Letters of Ted Stevens.)

Even medical science can’t nail down when exactly life begins, so we should truly praise the Governor for taking the bold move of picking up a dart, closing her eyes, and tossing away, regardless of who or what she might hit in two weeks.

I decided that I’d start taking my clothes off at some point while writing this article and continue writing naked until I finished. Not in an arrestable way, mind you, and not in a way that leaves any provable trail. You just have to believe me when I tell you that Jan Brewer caused me to strip.

Those fluffy, doe-like eyes. That alluring radiologist technological certificate. Those intractable, retrogressive, borderline Jacksonian values. How it makes me want to seduce Jan Brewer in a Delorean. Or a mauve Pinto. I think I’d begin the seduction by pointing.

Somewhere in the sexual fury that would erupt, I’d do my best to convince her to call Virginia and try and convince legislators that a transvaginal ultrasound is too practical and respectful of women and that — since they use ultrasound, too — they should have doctors examine the health of women with famous dolphins instead (“I know I invited you here to talk about that film of yours released in 1963, Flipper, but I’ve really brought you here for science”); then I’d try and convince her to call John Rhys-Davies so he could leave, “Fallopppiiannnn tuuuubeesss!” as a voicemail on my phone; and then, of course, I’d convince her to try and call Scott Walker, the man courageous enough to repeal an equal pay bill in secret, and I’d have her beg him replace it with an ‘equal height bill,’ mandating that all men and women must be exactly as tall as the other at all times, regardless of how it’s accomplished — stilts, having someone carry you on their shoulders, old disco shoes with colonies of goldfish, or whatever — because that is a much more practical way to support the dignity of both sexes.

It’s funny. I thought I would’ve felt more productive naked. It’s clearly a ‘places to go, people to see’ kind of attitude.

No matter. I just scratched myself, though I won’t tell you where. The house is quiet. Alternating sets of fireflies and cicadas rattle and loop in the blue sheen of night.

  8:42 pm  |   April 19 2012   |  8 notes