I’ve danced to DMX on a semi-nude beach in Italy. I’ve successfully dodged gunfire while hobbled with a torn ACL. I’ve gotten lost in someone’s bed before. (I was drunk and, well, it was a big-ass bed.) I read the 560 page Hannibal in less than 24 hours, and the 256 page Jazz in no less than 2,400 days. I even managed to not f*ck an AKA.
Basically, I’ve had a pretty fulfilling life so far. Well, at least that’s what I thought until I read about Asim Taylor.
From Clutch’s “Judge Orders Man To Stop Procreating”
A father of four, who owes $97,000 in back child support has been ordered to stop procreating. Judge James Walther, of Elyria, Ohio, handed down the sentence to Asim Taylor and he also received five yearsâ€™ of probation for failure to pay child support. If Taylor impregnates another woman within this time period, he could face a year in jail.
We’ll get to the actual meaning of a judge making a ruling on someone’s sexual activity in a minute. Now, though, I need to take a moment to recognize and acknowledge the fact that nothing I’ve done in my life compares to being able to strip naked, walk to the full-length mirror behind your bathroom door, stare at your penis, and know that whatever you’re packing is potent enough to make a f*cking judge craft a legal precedent because of it. There’s nothing I or anyone else can ever do to top that. No experience measures up, no activity or achievement compares. We are all Don Quixotes endlessly chasing windmills, and by “Don Quixotes endlessly chasing windmills” I mean “Losing the pissing contest of life to a man who can always just say “N*gga, you can’t tell me nothin’. My dick has a court docket number.”
Penis envy aside, Judge Walther’s decision is something I can reasonably assume we’ve all wished we could do at one time. If you are one of those people who say they’ve never been in Target or on the train or on Facebook or in Detroit or at a family reunion and looked at a man or a woman or the demon-mouthed, jackal-faced progeny of some anonymous man or woman and thought to themselves “Some people just shouldn’t be allowed to procreate” fine. I don’t believe you, and you need more people, but fine.
For the rest of us, though, this fantasy takes up a surprising—and disturbing—amount of mindspace. We pray that certain people don’t have kids. And, for some of those who do already have kids—and have proven to be as useless as parents as tits on a maggot—we pray they don’t have any more. But, our wishes never come true. In fact, the amount of children a person has nowadays seems to be inversely correlated to the amount of times someone looked at them and thought their name should just be “Nochance.”
So, why does this decision rub me the wrong way? Let’s forget about the Pandora’s Box it opens. (For instance, if he knocks a woman up, can she be charged as an accessory to a crime?) Let’s even forget about whether it’s constitutionally relevant or even f*cking legal. As much as I’ve wished I could be king for a day and tie the tubes of every hoodrat ahead of me in line at Giant Eagle, haughtily bringing 18 items to the 12 items or less aisle, the thought of actually possessing the power to do that—to be able to order and legally enforce a form of eugenics—just doesn’t seem right.
Perhaps it doesn’t seem right because, on a fundamental level, I know that it is. On every practical, logical, and biological level, it makes perfect sense to do what we can to deter “undesirables” from having children. In fact, considering that we’re the only species that not only allows the weakest and dumbest of us to have the most children, but puts valuable resources into saving weak and dumb children instead of allowing them to die off, it’s senseless not to practice eugenics.
But, when what is or isn’t undesirable is left up to something as arbitrary as human determination, whose to say that your name won’t eventually be on that list? Basically, if you start eugenics, where does it stop?
—Damon Young (aka “The Champ”)