In any case, I did some more mulling over Samantha's Story. Here it is again, for those who don't want to click here and read my previously penned purple prose.
The video is a cornucopia or progressive, libertine fail awesomeness that it could be reused over and over on a blog. Which it might. But not right now. Right now, I'm going to zero in on one aspect in particular: Waiting until you're ready.
Note that Samantha's parents don't get a say in any of this. She's a hormone-fueled teen who goes to the school counselor for advice, a counselor who looks to be a devotee of Sandra Fluke. The counselor and other henchcreatures within the government "health care" apparatus advise her to look for a lover (of any sex) who will wait until she is "ready."
Yay! 16-year-old-girls deciding when it's "the time," advised by government employees who have no personal stake in the outcome. When the diseases / babies / beatings / depression come, the school counselor will be:
- Sleeping in the bedroom next to Samantha's, awake all night from her sobbing,
- Sitting with her at the hospital for her next appointment,
- Helping her walk through her life-altering decisions at the dinner table, or
- At home, watching TV with a glass of chardonnay after a long day spent destroying the foundations of civilization.
From the teenage guy's point of view, things couldn't get any better unless the school counselor came over to his pad to light the candles, put on the music and pour the Boone's Farm for them. Whereas in the olden days of misogynistic oppression, societal opprobrium weighed heavy on the girl's mind, protecting her future self from idiotic, lust-fueled decisions by her teenage self, you've now got the full might and majesty of the United States Government telling her, "Go for it! He's the one!"
Memo to self: Have talk with teenage daughter about avoiding the suggestions of school guidance counselors. Emphasize how the guidance counselor won't be around to change diapers.