On my "Bad Advice Podcast," I answered a question from a 17-year-old girl in a dire situation: her 17-year-old boyfriend had died in a car accident a week ago, and she had just discovered she was pregnant with his child.
She was torn between keeping the baby and having an abortion, noting that both her parents and her late boyfriend's parents are strict Christians. She felt that his parents already disliked her and was struggling with how to break the news while everyone was grieving.
I dove into her dilemma with my show's signature mix of sincere grappling and provocative, dark humor. Even though I’m personally "pro-life," I had to immediately question the morality of bringing a child into a world of such immense struggle. My core advice, which became the central, repeated theme of the episode, was for her not to have the baby.
My reasoning was pragmatic and focused entirely on her well-being. At 17, a baby would severely limit her life, education, and future. Keeping it would force a lifelong, painful connection with her deceased boyfriend's family, who might be resentful or even try to take custody. The situation was just inherently "messed up," and I felt bringing a child into it would only perpetuate the trauma.
To drive my point home, I leaned into my chaotic format, using distorted voices to impersonate a former president, a vapid friend, and an enraged, slut-shaming parent figure.
Through these characters, I mocked various societal perspectives while relentlessly reinforcing my central message. The episode culminated in a chorus-like chant and song, where I repeatedly urged, "Don't have the baby" and "Abort mission."
My Reflection: The Ethics of a "Gravestone Question"
I call this kind of problem a "gravestone question"—a secret, as I said on the show, to be taken to the grave. My episode became a visceral case study where the clean, abstract tenets of ideology collide with the devastating messiness of a real-life tragedy.
While I frame it as "bad advice," my chaotic deliberation was really a profound exploration of philosophy, religion, humanism, and the painful tension between absolute principles and relative truths.
The Collapse of My Own Religious Absolutism
Her dilemma was framed by a rigid moral code: "strict Christians who have strong values." I even paid lip service to this, stating on air, "I am pro-life... I believe every baby should be born."
But that absolutist stance shattered upon contact with her reality. My first instinct wasn't to uphold a rule but to question its consequences: "What is the condition that the baby's gonna be born in and what kind of life is it gonna have?" This pivot from a rule-based ethic to a consequentialist one—judging an act by its outcome—was the central philosophical move I made in the episode.
I concluded that bringing a baby into the world merely to suffer would be a greater cruelty. I even tried to create a spiritual loophole to reconcile the decision with a lingering belief system, suggesting, "Just because you get rid of the baby doesn't mean that you get rid of the soul."
Humanism in the Face of Tragedy
Stripped of religious certainty, my ultimate counsel was a powerful, if blunt, expression of secular humanism. My core argument was rooted in prioritizing the well-being, autonomy, and potential of the living, breathing human at the center of the crisis: the 17-year-old girl.
When I declared, "This is my answer from a human to a human: do not have his kids," I was setting aside all other frameworks—faith, societal expectation, even the abstract rights of the unborn—in favor of compassion for her.
I was championing her right to a future, to an education, to a life not permanently defined by this single, tragic event. My ethic was pragmatic, focused on minimizing suffering and maximizing human flourishing in this world.
The potential life of the fetus was weighed against the certain, lifelong impact on the girl, and in this case, I chose the person over the principle.
The Relativism of "Bad Advice"
The very title of my podcast is a nod to moral relativism. It suggests that in certain extreme situations, there are no universally "good" answers, only a spectrum of painful choices.
I didn't present my advice as an objective moral truth but as my subjective response to her unique and terrible circumstances. I made sure to acknowledge that the decision was ultimately hers alone, stating, "I think this is something that only you can find out for yourself."
I believe morality cannot be decided in a vacuum. The "right" choice is contingent on context—her age, her emotional state, the lack of a partner, the hostile family, and the profound grief. I was implicitly arguing against a one-size-fits-all morality, suggesting that what might be wrong in one context could be the most compassionate option in another.
Human Rights as Slogan and Substance
During the episode, I briefly and mockingly touched on the political language of human rights. Impersonating a politician, I parroted, "Abortion rights is human rights... that's what they say. I see the posters." That moment was my cynical commentary on how deeply personal and agonizing decisions are often flattened into political slogans.
Yet, beneath that mockery, my argument was fundamentally about her human right to autonomy and bodily integrity. My core advice was meant to empower her to make a choice that would allow her to reclaim control over her life.
I framed the debate not as a political issue but as an existential one, where the abstract "right to life" of a fetus was in direct conflict with the tangible, life-altering reality of this young woman. I had to conclude that her fundamental right to self-determination—to not be forced into a life of suffering and servitude to a tragedy—must prevail.
In the end, I used my chaotic and provocative platform to argue that in the face of impossible choices, the most ethical response may be to abandon rigid ideologies. True compassion, I believe, lies not in upholding abstract rules, but in focusing on the tangible human being who must bear the consequences.
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