Wow! The Candie’s Foundation gave Bristol Palin over a quarter mil to go around the country in her role as an ambassador for their teen pregnancy campaign in 2009. According to an article in Forbes online, they gave her $262,500 to tell fresh-faced young girls that it’s a BAD thing to get pregnant as a teenager like she did because it’s a big responsibility and just not worth it, unless your Mom is famous and someone else watches your baby and someone gives you over a quarter million bucks to tell kids how bad a thing it was you did and how well it worked out for you.
Is the Candie’s Foundation really a charitable foundation? Well, according to Forbes, in addition to the $262,500 they gave Bristol to roam the country, flashing her jewels and pretty smile and fancy clothes so she could WARN young girls about the dangers of “not saying no to teenaged woo-woo”, they ALSO managed to pony up a total of $35K to donate to charities out of the $1,242,476 that was donated by the public.
Nice work if you can get it. In fact, I want some of that action.
No, not to discuss teen abstinence which is a joke and doesn’t work. But to discuss something I know even MORE about.
I’ll offer my REAL solution to teen pregnancy in a moment, but first…
If the Candie’s Foundation will pay some little prettied-up Alaska hillbilly gal to discuss the dangers of doing what she did which resulted in great profit for that which she warns against, then maybe they have a few extra bucks to kick up to me for my campaign to warn the kids about…
THE DANGERS OF PRE-MARITAL DONUT CONSUMPTION
Let me set the scene.
The kids are packed into the auditorium with a wide aisle down the middle. They gasp in horror as a forklift enters the gym carrying my corpulent ass on a shipping pallet . The forklift beeps as it rolls as the children avert their eyes from this horrible sight. We reach the stage, the back wheels of the forklift come off the floor as I’m lifted to the stage where several strong men remove the pallet from the forklift and turn me to face the kiddies.
I’m wearing a filthy sleeveless t-shirt. It’s impossible to tell whether or not I’m wearing pants, as my gut overlaps my waist and dangles to the sides and back. Oh, and I’m wearing mismatched socks. I mean, who can see his feet? Not me!
There is a box of donuts on my lap, and I eat during the entire presentation, spitting donut chunks into the first and second row while showing a Power Point presentation of diseased hearts, clogged arteries, windpipes clogged with barely-chewed food, and other gross and graphic autopsy photos of death from morbid obesity. We finish with a picture of fat Oprah , then thin Oprah, followed by fat Oprah, then thin Oprah again posing with all the fat they sucked out of her body, then fat Oprah again.
I speak of the need to avoid these sweet, tasty treats until one is lawfully wed to a member of the opposite sex. (This is because a male husband or a female wife is CERTAIN to say something if he or she sees his/her spouse gorging on donuts while the word on the street is that gay guys actually eat donuts off of each others… well, that’s what they’re saying in the 4th grade locker room, anyway.)
During the presentation I eat, fart odiously, noisily and copiously, and perhaps I may vomit into a bucket. I’ll save that for when it looks like I’m losing their attention.
When I’m finished, I mop my sweaty brow. Two stage hands with high pressure hoses wash the donut chunks, jimmies, glaze and frosting from my body. Then my huge, dripping wet body, the filthy t-shirt clinging to my every curve, is placed back onto the forklift. I’m lowered back to the floor and the forklift backs out of the gym, past the terrified, changed-forever children, out to the front of the school where I am loaded into the back of a semi-trailer truck. Then volunteers pass among the children and have them sign pledges to abstain from donuts until they are married. “Don’t be hasty, wait for the pastry!” will be our motto!
It would work. And if having an unwed mother who has profited mightily from her unwed motherhood speak against unwed motherhood is worth $262K, then I should at least be able to ask for $100K. If they provide the donuts, we can negotiate on the salary.
Now… my real, actual solution to teen pregnancy.
It’s a problem that crosses all socio-economic borders. Young female knuckleheads who give up the nookie like the A&P used to give up Green Stamps because that want that unconditional love you can only get from some guy who wants into your pants for 10 minutes and will never speak to you again and will only mention your name to the other guys who will also expect you to deliver like FedEx — on time, and on demand.
What they’re REALLY missing is that sense of unconditional love that can only come from a cute, cuddly adorable little baby.
“The baby won’t care if I break curfew! The baby won’t care if I got a ‘D’ in math. The baby won’t ground me for talking back to Mom and Dad. The baby will just LOVE me for being ME! And they’re just like little dollies! They’re cute, sweet-smelling little angel dollies and you can brush their hair and they never make a sound and they coo and cuddle and sleep all night and all I have to do is put the baby in its crib if I want to play with my friends or go to the mall. And besides, Mom and Dad will be guilted into helping me with the baby so I can still hang out and drink and get high with my friends until I come home with another baby, and another one after that. And the state pays you MONEY to have babies. So where’s the down side?”
So, here’s what we do.
Each state makes a deal with their individual child welfare agencies. They gather babies from unwed mothers and care for them. In the first semester of 8th grade, each girl — no opt-outs, no notes from home, no excuses — is given a 2-month old baby to care for the entire semester.
Let the little darlings see what it’s REALLY like. Forget the labor pains, forget the nine months of uncomfortable pregnancy. Let’s talk about what it MEANS to HAVE a baby.
Unconditional love? Bullshit. The baby sees you as its provider. And you must provide. Social workers will be assigned to each family to ENSURE the safety and care of the baby. And you will do the job CORRECTLY. The alternative will be a court-ordered reversible tubal ligation which will — if you want it — be reversed when you are 21 and can prove you are able to provide for your own child.
Say there, LaTisha! Wanna go hang out with your pals? Can’t! Baby!
Hola, Juanita! Wanna go to the mall with your chums? No es posible. Bebe!
What ho, Brittney! That cute freshman football star wants to take you to the dance? Not possible. Baby!
When the baby wakes up, you go get it. When the baby cries, you go hold it. When the baby is hungry, you feed it. When the baby fills its adorable little “ Hello Kitty ” diapers with foul, reeking baby mud, you CLEAN the little baby butt and the social worker will BE there to make sure you do it RIGHT!
And, under penalty of law, no help from Mom and Dad. It’s YOUR baby! YOU take care of it.
For an entire semester.
You’re sleepy? Tough. The baby is cranky tonight. You’re hungry? Tough. The baby eats first. You want to go to a movie? Tough. The baby has a cold. You want to do ANYTHING! NO! You CAN’T! You have a BABY now!
The baby’s clothes are dirty. Wash them. The baby needs diapers. Buy them. The baby needs food. Buy some. The baby needs and needs and needs and needs. And you can’t put it in its little crib and ignore it because that’s when they come and take you to jail.
Still want a baby?
No. What you wanted was “unconditional love,” not this screaming, squalling, dripping from every orifice, 24/7 poop-making machine. This demanding little dictator who you can’t let out of your sight for a MINUTE. You wanted someone who would love you for being YOU, not something that would drain every last ounce of strength, energy and money out of you.
This isn’t what you wanted at ALL!
Now, this will do nothing to quell those urges that all adolescents experience. But it will do a far sight more than having some former Wasilla nouveau-riche hillbilly who got pregnant in high school because she was mad at her conservative mommy and she really, really loved the baby daddy until mommy convinced her he didn’t really fit in with the new “Palin Image” telling kids not to do that which she got rich doing. Betcha a box of donuts that teenaged girls will AT LEAST make sure the fella has that rascal WRAPPED before she lets it get anywhere NEAR her. And who knows…
The experience might make her THINK about the possible CONSEQUENCES of sex and she’ll abstain — not because God or Bristol Palin TOLD her to, but because she knows what taking full-time care of a baby is like, and maybe someday she’ll be ready to deal with all that. Just not right now.