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Actually, that’s the good news, for that at least presupposes that the child has parents. But, in Lennon’s world, why would anyone bother to parent at all? Thus, this “utopia” would likely breed an epidemic of out-of-wedlock births (marriage being a promise to stay together “till death do you part” which, in most cases, is longer than the next twenty-four hours,) and mothers with as many baby-daddies as babies. After all, sex is thrilling in the moment but relationships can last for years.
In Lennon’s “utopia,” abortions would be sold as fast, easy and, of course, free of all moral qualms. There’d be no moral issue involved in abortion for the answer is easy – the party’s tonight, the baby? Not due for another few months. Why, in Lennon’s utopia you might even find abortion factories running so near capacity they’ll come to be known as “mills.”
And what might the children who live be like? Well, it wouldn’t be surprising to find them vulgar, violent, illiterate and undisciplined, perhaps brandishing the latest technology (gifts from the folks who want to be their friends) gathering into mobs and doing as they please. Heaven and hell? Not their concern in Lennon’s world. The ire of their parents? Non-existent. The courts? Well, maybe (if they don’t get a Lennon-ite Liberal judge) but prison is tomorrow, that leather jacket feels good right now!
And just as Lennon’s world would see the end of civility it would see the end of profundity. The beautiful would be replaced by the titillating. Rather than great plays from the heart and mind, one might find monologues emanating from vaginas. Rather than great ballets, one might find standing ovations bestowed upon those who masterfully puppet their penises. Rather than plays about love, duty and honor, one might find entire musicals about an orgasm.
Like small children – those who do live for the day — feces would hold great fascination for “artist” in Lennon’s world. In his utopia, Broadway might have plays with names like “Urinetown” while museums would eschew the Monets and the Manets for a drawing of Jesus in a jar of excrement. Body fluids and body functions and not the meaning of life would be the depths they’d plumb for genius takes time but cutting a fart is instantly relieving. It’s so much easier for a sit-com writer to type: “Then Al flushes the toilet” than it is to come up with a clever bon mot.
Virtuosity would be looked down on in Lennon’s world for it is the product of hard work and personal sacrifice. Instead, the musically illiterate shouting vulgarities and guttural emotions would dominate the airwaves and populate the recording studios. Who knows, maybe one day the Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences might compile a list of nominees for the “best song” of the year and the winner will be a wholly unmelodic exhortation to have sympathy for pimps because, well, it’s hard out there for them. (The pimp, in Lennon’s world would be the hero, for he is living the dream, “sharing all the world” by getting others to do the work.)
Of course, we don’t have to imagine Lennon’s world. Half of America now lives it and is doing everything in their power to drag the rest of us down that sewer pipe with them. Millions are in debt. Millions have no savings. Our infrastructure is in ill-repair and our schools have gone from best to worst. Our teachers aren’t teaching, our parents aren’t parenting our children are illiterate, incompetent and lazy, taking to the streets in flash mobs, randomly pummeling and pillaging for the momentary pleasure. Out-of-wedlock birthrates are epidemic, abortions are commonplace and so are mothers with multiple “baby-daddies.” “It’s Hard Out Here For a Pimp” was chosen as the “best song” of the year by the glitterati at the Academy of Recording Arts and Sciences and The Vagina Monologues is one of the most celebrated plays of our lifetime. Broadway is littered with infantile productions and flushing toilets do now garner laughs on prime time TV. Welcome to Lennon’s world, it’s nothing like you imagined.
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