The Babies You Don’t Want Or Can’t Have But Will Be Forced To Birth Anyways Clinic (BYDWOCHBWBFTBA for short) was doing truly fantastic work, a coworker told me as he leaned down nearly all of the way to the table to take a bite of his unseasoned chicken and Wonderbread sandwich. In the process, the tip of his red cap skimmed his tub of “dipping mayonnaise”. When he looked up at me, the freshly mayo’d brim gave the impression of a bold, white underline to emphasize the hat’s “Keep America Great Again 2024” call to action.
The Clinic locations, he continued, which had quickly popped up all across America in 2025, were nearly in every city now, with many larger areas touting more than one location.
Our small and recently renamed town of ConfederacyMcHeritageville had just gotten its first clinic, and Mayo Brim had been volunteering there on the weekends. His primary duty, he said, was helping to ensure mandatory pregnancy appointments went smoothly.
After the Supreme Court had overturned Roe v. Wade — and a quick succession of other privacy rights decisions shortly after — many states began to implement laws requiring women who were pregnant, suspected they might be pregnant, or whose government-monitored menstruation cycle apps (brought to you by Hobby Lobby, TM) indicated they had missed a period, were all required to immediately schedule an appointment at one of the clinics.
Originally, conservative lawmakers had named the clinic chain “Unplanned Parenthood” to own the libs. However, in the last days of Biden’s presidency in 2024, he managed to narrowly pass one more piece of hard-hitting legislation, renaming the clinics to the clunky, ridiculous BYDWOCHBWBFTBA in order to own the cons.
Nice one, Joe.
According to my coworker, mandatory appointments for pregnants or suspected-pregnants at the Clinics generally went down something like this:
Mandatory clinic visits were “informational” sessions in which women were reminded several times of the jail time they could face should they even think about terminating their pregnancy. Seeing as OB/GYN programs at universities had been outlawed, such sessions were conducted by labcoat-clad Christian lads with half-year educational certificates from the University of Phoenix online. Hey, if six months was good enough for police officers, it was good enough for baby “doctors.”
After prison sentence warnings, perspective mothers were shown video reels of young childless women graduating university, founding successful companies, traveling the world, and other such horrors to remind them how awful life could be and further reinforce that their only potential lie in taking their pregnancy to term, regardless of any and all circumstances surrounding it.
The appointments would then conclude with a friendly reminder that the United States guaranteed no maternity leave after birthing a child, no subsidized childcare for working mothers, privatized education, and that the mothers would be receiving a hospital bill after birth, so they’d best get their bootstraps ready.
A solitary drop of mayonnaise fell from my coworker’s hat brim, past his eyes and onto the table. He didn’t notice.
He continued to explain his work, reaching an excited crescendo while explaining one of his proudest contributions to our budding local clinic: He had started strategically reparking his Ford Raptor throughout the day to help block the view of women leaving the clinic so that they wouldn’t have to watch the local PD’s daily beat down of the anti-anti-abortion protestors outside.
Mayo Brim paused and seemed to be waiting for some sort of response.
I wasn’t sure what to say, so I threw a Hail Mary:
“Those protestors sound about as useful as a COVID-23 vaccine!” I said unconvincingly.
MB smiled and croaked a “you’re damn right, brother” sentence/burp hybrid between sips of Mr. Pibb.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and launched back into his adoration of the BYDWOCHBWBFTBA Clinic and their life(ish)-saving work.
I zoned out, watching the clock count down the final seconds before my lunch break ended.
As I stepped back onto the work floor, I dawned my gloves and goggles, and grabbed a can of walnut wood varnish.
Like every day, I would spend my working hours earning Bezos Bucks by carefully painting the angular sides, edges, and lids of relatively small caskets; just long enough to house a 5’4” human being, the average height of a woman in the United States.
Business was booming, and to my left I heard Mayo Brim at work, whistling away with a smile on his face.
