Representative Bobby Franklin, Can I Have Your Baby? An Open Letter Toward Anti-Choice Douchbaggery

Dear Representative Bobby Franklin,

How did you date all the women in Georgia? Aren’t there, like, a lot of women in Georgia? Seriously, it’s a pretty decent sized state. And, from what I hear about them, some are pretty damn cute. You know, Southern Belle and all that. How did you get through them all? And at such a young age?

You did date them, right Bobby? I mean, you must have been personal with them at one point.

Because you seem to be really, really busy writing legislation about their peaches.

House Bill 1: “The State of Georgia has the duty to protect all innocent life from the moment of conception until natural death. We know that life begins at conception.”

This latin-fulled nugget of epic proportions must be your baby. Ha. Get it? I have to say, this is one of the most beautifully worded revocations of personal choice and human rights I’ve ever read. In fact, allow me to highlight my faves:

“…by deleting the words "an induced termination of pregnancy" and replacing
them with "a prenatal murder”…"

“…so as to provide that prenatal murder shall be unlawful in all events…”

What happens if I fall, Bobby? Or I was raped? What happens when John Boy up in those georgeous Georgia hills wakes up and yells “Hello, Blue Ridge Mountains, I’ve got a mighty pretty little sister and one set of webbed toes!”? John Boy’s sister must have wanted it, right? She couldn’t have been a casualty of perversion.

At least there’s a bit of reprieve here. Miscarriage doesn’t count. I mean, just “…so long as there is no human involvement whatsoever in the causation of such event.” (Just when we thought the Medical Examiner on CSI couldn’t investigate anything creepier.)

Anyway, Betty Jo’s presumed lust for brother John dovetails nicely into your next Opus. Play it for me, Mr. Holland:

HB 14: A Bill to be Entitled-
Rape victims are not “victims”, but “accusers”. Oh, and who else aren’t victims? Children that pick up the phone to heavy breathers or foul mouthed pervs. People that have been stalked, whether it be regular old stalking, or aggravated. People that have been domestically abused. None of these people can be referred to as “victims” until the asshat that committed the “alleged” crime is convicted.

I’m beginning to sense a pattern with you, Bobby. I’m starting to think that maybe, just maybe, you think that rather than writing this, I should be keeping my filthy mouth shut and not thinking about Roe or Wade, while standing in front of the dishwasher in bare feet. You know, because then I’d be two thirds of the way into your warped domestic, crucifix encrusted, the-wife-is-the-helpmate suburban rung of hell. I’m also starting to think that you are harboring the conception that if something comes near my vag, it’s because I’m a big ole’ ho, and I wanted it there. Do you want a belay device, since my nether regions are so vast and cavernous that apparently, you can spelunk in them?

Detective Olivia Benson is crapping her pants right now, Bobby, and Ice T is ready to punch you in the face, talk about your mama, and then put you in a cell with Jorge the Jersey Man Lover. And I’ll only have four words for you when he woos you with his Shank ‘O Love, courtesy of the great Dan Akroyd:

“Bobby, you ignorant slut.”