A lot of you wonder how I feel about human life and when it begins. I get a lot of puzzled prayers on it. "Lord," these supplicants say. "do you really mean it when you say some four-cell blastocyst is the same as a real breathing human being like Ted Nugent or Honey Boo-Boo?"

To which I respond, Hell yeah. Life is sacred because I make it that way. All seven billion of you are made in My image, from the coldest Eskimo in Nome to the hottest stripper in Vegas. Every time a sperm sweet-talks its way into an egg another mini-Me starts forming and that's sacred right until the second that life ends, whether that be by getting wiped out by a tsunami, run over by a spoiled teenager in his dad's girlfriend's BMW or dying a quiet, dignified death at an advanced age due to medical malpractice.

Yep, whether you're drunkenly flaming strangers on Huffpo or being chased by hungry crocodiles down the Nile or getting bayoneted because you wandered into the wrong neighborhood in Aleppo, you have My love equally, except for Americans, whom I love a little more because they seem to need that.

And now they've got their BVD's in a lump because they can't figure out whether My will is being done when a child is conceived as a result of rape. Well, natch. My will regulates everything in the universe. People bitch about Obamacare, but those regulations aren't a poop spot from a hummingbird compared to Mine. And you know why? That's right, because I made it that way.

So when you girls get pregnant after you've been raped, just deal. Your violently conceived child may grow up to be a world leader or a famous musician or a reality TV hunk. Of course, he may grow up to be just another rapist. Or all of the above. That's for Me to say.

Not every woman gets raped. I don't need to apologize for that. In fact, ladies, if you think about it, I give you all kinds of signs that My will is about to result in you getting raped.  If your new step-dad keeps inviting you outside to help him soundproof his tool shed or says "Take off them tight clothes you're wearing. Might as well throw them in the washer, too," when you are doing laundry together, for example, he might be following My will.

If you accept a blind date with a neighborhood guy whose nickname is "Turk" or "T-Bone," you're taking your chances, obviously.

If you're the only girl cousin in a large family that lives on a mountainside in Kentucky you can probably count on one or more of your men-folk having a hankering to show you his John-boy, if you know what I mean.

If  the guy sitting next to you on the subway keeps telling you in a conversational way that he pulled out all his own teeth so the Sex Police couldn't track him and then follows you off at your stop you're probably in My plans as well as his.

If you've got an itch to throw on your tiniest vinyl skirt and head to some downtown bar to cut loose, remember, roofies may be a mysterious, or at least hard-to remember part of My workings. Morning after pills are definitely not.

Or if you're lying there, shamelessly ovulating away, taking a nap by yourself on some summer afternoon with only a thin screen door between you and that  neighbor who can't get you out of his mind since he saw you mowing the lawn in a halter top, I might start thinking that you've been neglectin' your begettin' for long enough.

Oh, I hear the complaints. It's not fair, that women shouldn't be able to use birth control pills and get abortions and the like and guys, even rapist guys, should be controlling what you girls do with all of that wonderful reproductive stuff I gave you. Just try to remember, I created everything and put it in its place, and there's a place for all you girls in My world.

It's just not first place

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