Hello again, Dear Reader, I return after an extended absence. Some of this absence I spent on the Upper Amazon (I’m not kidding), but I return refreshed and ready once again to bring you tidings of Doom. The latest sign of the apocalypse is being brought to us by the legislatures of New York and Virginia, both of which have either passed (New York) or recently considered (Virginia) abortion statutes which contemplate abortions performed so late that the kid is already born, if its existence threatens the mental health of the mother. (I must admit that New York has an ant-partial birth abortion law, but how long do you think that will hold up in the current climate?)

Now this brings up an interesting question: how old does the little monster have to be before you are no longer permitted to croak it?

Let’s face it; at some point, everybody wants to kill one or more of their children. How many times have you yourself said to one of your little darlings “I’m going to kill you if you ever do that again!” By the time the kid is two years old, it has figured out that this is not true, which explains the Terrible Twos. The fact that you also know that this is untrue is based on two fundamental facts. One, you of course love your progeny, who represent both your genetic immortality and your future bragging rights. But two, you are fully aware that bumping the kid off will earn you either the right to room with Bubba the Sex Maniac for the next forty-five years or, in more progressive states, the right to an unpleasant electrocution.

Now, let us assume for the moment that fact two is eliminated. What possible ages might one select for the cutoff of infanticide rights?

Kids tend to poop in their pants until they are about three, which is revolting, so we have potential cutoff number one.

Kids often pee in their beds until they are about eight, which is also revolting, so we have potential cutoff number two.

Kids hit puberty at around thirteen, which makes them ricochet off the walls, so we have potential cutoff number three.

Kids get driver’s licenses at around sixteen, so we have potential cutoff number four (no explanation needed).

Finally, kids head off to college at around eighteen, which is insanely expensive even if they go to Okefenokee County Institute for Medieval Gender Studies, so we have potential cutoff number five.

I could go on, but you get my drift.

But why should your rights be restricted to your children. Aren’t there lots of other relatives who drive you nuts? For example, your wife and your brother-in-law? Kill ‘em both!

And how about folks who are not related to you, but also drive you up the wall? How about your boss (that jerk)? How about the guy in the next cubicle whose cell phone uses the Song of the Volga Boatmen as its ringtone?

And why restrict things to people you actually know? That great philosopher Ogden Nash once created the deathless poem “I think, therefore I am. But what bothers me are all the people who don’t think, but are anyway.” What about rap musicians (sic), heavy metal practitioners, artists who draw with dilute solutions of excrement? As the Red Queen from Alice in Wonderland would say, “off with their heads!”

Cutoffs? We don’t need no stinking cutoffs. We just need to issue completely unrestricted hunting licenses which permit us to shoot whomever we want to, at any time, in any place, for any damn reason we please. To prevent mass shootings, we must impose a bag limit, say one per day. Vast fun. But if I were you, I’d stay out of New York and Virginia.