15 Abortions in 15 Years: Guinness Book refuses to credit world record.

Note: In a plot twist that could make a soap opera blush, Irene Vilar claims her 15 abortions involved 13 men and one donkey, a detail so bananas it’s got PETA picketing, X users spamming hoof emojis, and Jesus probably double-checking His forgiveness fine print. This is SATIRE, but the core story is tragically real—Google it, and brace for a wild ride. I wish this wasn’t true, but here we are.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — Buckle up, America, because Irene Vilar, the self-proclaimed “Uterine Marie Kondo,” has taken her 15 abortions in 15 years and turned them into a cultural trainwreck so unhinged it makes a QAnon convention look like a book club sipping chamomile tea. Her memoir, Impossible Motherhood: Testimony of an Abortion Addict, isn’t just a book—it’s a one-woman mission to make your jaw drop faster than a Wi-Fi signal in a storm.

Is Vilar a pioneer of reproductive pandemonium, a Moloch-worshipping chaos gremlin, or just someone who mistook her womb for a revolving door at a Black Friday sale? Spoiler: It’s all of the above, with a side of barnyard shenanigans that’ll haunt your dreams.

The First “Quick Fix”: A Teen’s Epic Faceplant into Bad Choices

Flash back to the ‘90s: frosted tips, dial-up internet screeching like a banshee, and 18-year-old Irene Vilar, fresh off a Puerto Rican childhood that sounds like Edgar Allan Poe fanfic, staring at a pregnancy test like it’s a pop quiz written in Klingon. She’s parked by Skaneateles Lake, probably blasting Spice Girls, when she gets knocked up by her 50-something literature professor—a four-times-divorced sleaze who thinks “family” is just a fancy word for “gulag.” So, what’s a girl to do? She texts her bestie (okay, probably calls, it’s the ‘90s), sashays into a Syracuse clinic like she’s ordering a Pumpkin Spice Latte, and demands a “quick fix” abortion faster than you can say “Whoopsie-daisy!”

“It was like fixing a botched manicure,” Vilar allegedly told The Daily Yak, a news outlet we’re pretty sure we conjured from thin air. “Snip, snip, and I’m back to being the sultry muse my professor wanted. No fuss, no muss, right?” Oh, Irene, you sweet summer child, you couldn’t be more wrong if you tried to navigate with a broken compass and a blindfold.

Hours later, she’s limping to Professor Creep’s office, pale as a ghost, lying about her “period,” and then—because boundaries were apparently on vacation—letting him “invade” her body again. “It was romance,” she said. Sure, Irene, and I’m the reigning champion of RuPaul’s Drag Race.

The Uterine Declutter: A Tradition That’d Make Martha Stewart Quit

For Vilar, abortions weren’t just medical procedures—they were her Coachella, her Black Friday, her annual excuse to yeet her uterus’s contents like it was last season’s fast fashion. “Every spring, when the daisies bloom and the allergies hit, I’d peek at my womb and go, ‘Time for a refresh!’” she reportedly bragged to The Galactic Gossip, a tabloid we likely invented in a fever dream. “It’s not about ending pregnancies; it’s about vibing with my inner minimalist. Out with the clutter, in with… absolutely nada!”

Dr. Felicia Harper, a self-styled “Professor of Reproductive Culture” at Yale (last spotted debating a Roomba in a supply closet), was practically vibrating with admiration. “Irene’s not just making choices; she’s sculpting a legacy so wild it could headline its own HBO miniseries. Her uterus is like a storage unit on Storage Wars—every year, she rolls up the door, sees the chaos, and calls in the industrial-grade Shop-Vac. This isn’t abortion; it’s high art. Banksy wishes he had this kind of vision, but all he’s got is spray paint and a hoodie.”

Harper’s already lobbying for “National Womb Reset Day,” complete with commemorative mugs that say, “Declutter Your Uterus, Spark Joy!” She added, “Some folks collect Pokémon cards or vintage teacups. Irene? She’s out here power-washing her reproductive system like it’s a driveway covered in glitter. Iconic.”

Moloch’s Superfan: The Occult Plot Thickens

Just when you thought this saga couldn’t spiral further into the abyss, enter Dr. Malcom Abyzzmann, a Delaware basement-dwelling “occult doctor” who looks like he flunked out of Hogwarts and landed in a Spirit Halloween clearance aisle. Surrounded by flickering Dollar Store candles, a Spotify playlist titled “Moloch’s Screamo Bangers,” and a taxidermied possum he insists is his “spirit guide,” Abyzzmann swears Vilar’s 15 abortions were less about autonomy and more about securing a penthouse suite in Moloch’s infernal Airbnb.

“Irene’s not just a mortal; she’s Moloch’s Employee of the Century,” Abyzzmann proclaimed, fluffing his sequined cape. “Fifteen sacrifices in fifteen years? That’s not a lifestyle—that’s a loyalty program. Moloch’s probably got her on speed dial, sending her demonic Venmo payments for her dedication. Most people can’t keep a houseplant alive, but Irene’s out here delivering for her dark overlord like she’s running DoorDash for Hell.”

When asked about the donkey rumor, Abyzzmann cackled like he’d just won the occult lottery. “The donkey? That’s a flex. Moloch lives for unhinged energy. It’s like tossing a glitter bomb into a ritual sacrifice. Irene’s not just serving chaos—she’s plating it with a side of ranch.”

The Donkey Debacle: Mr. Hooves and the Barn Heard ‘Round the World

Oh, the donkey. Vilar’s claim that one of her 15 pregnancies involved a barnyard heartthrob named Mr. Hooves is so wild it crashed X faster than a celebrity tweet gone wrong. “It was a starry night, too many margaritas, and a barn with worse lighting than a gas station bathroom,” Vilar allegedly told The National Barnyard Enquirer, a rag we’re 100% sure we made up. “Mr. Hooves had this… je ne sais quoi. I regret nothing, except maybe not checking for security cameras.”

PETA’s in full meltdown mode, launching a “Justice for Mr. Hooves” campaign with T-shirts, a GoFundMe for donkey yoga retreats, and a PSA featuring Nicolas Cage in a straw hat sobbing, “Hooves deserved better!” “This is an outrage!” shrieked PETA’s Luna Sprout. “Mr. Hooves isn’t some farm fling—he’s a victim! We’re demanding a congressional hearing and a true-crime podcast called Bray of Betrayal.”

Mr. Hooves, now hiding at a petting zoo under an alias (rumored to be “Sir Trot-a-Lot”), has lawyered up with Gloria Giggles, an attorney specializing in “interspecies drama.” “If Mr. Hooves was a willing participant, we’ve got a quirky Hallmark movie,” Giggles snorted. “If not, Irene’s facing a lawsuit and a lifetime ban from every petting zoo in America. Either way, that donkey’s getting a Netflix deal and a therapy llama.”

Culture War Clown Show: Tacos, Cornholes, and Molochpalooza

Vilar’s tale has turned the culture wars into a circus so bonkers it makes Tiger King look like a PBS documentary. Outside the Supreme Court, 23-year-old Kyle “Flipping” Peterson, dressed as a giant taco and waving a sign that screams “Her Body, Her Cornhole!”, became an instant TikTok legend. “It’s about liberty, dude!” he bellowed, clutching his fifth White Claw like a lifeline. “I saw ‘cornhole’ trending on X and thought, ‘That’s my brand!’ Plus, my cousin dared me to wear this taco suit, and I’m not about to lose a bet over a chalupa. Freedom, baby!”

Across the street, Dr. Abyzzmann led a “Moloch Mania Rally,” complete with dancers in glittery goat onesies and a chant set to “Sweet Caroline”: “Moloch, Moloch, Moloch, burn it all down, sacrifice!” One protester, rocking a bedazzled skull tiara, yelled, “Irene’s our goddess! She’s yeeting for the dark lord while y’all are whining about inflation!”

The left’s hailing Vilar as a “womb minimalist,” the right’s branding her a “fetus-flinging demon,” and the internet’s just churning out donkey memes like it’s a full-time job. Dr. Thomas Bright, a political scientist who moonlights as a Reddit philosopher, nailed it: “It’s Etsy feminists versus Bass Pro Shop conservatives. One side’s all about curating the uterus; the other’s carving cribs out of oak and praying for a baby boom. Welcome to 2025’s dumpster fire.”

The “Master” and the Creepiest Rom-Com Never Greenlit

Let’s backtrack to Vilar’s origin story, because it’s a horror show dressed as a rom-com. At 15, she’s a Puerto Rican prodigy fleeing a childhood that sounds like a Greek tragedy on steroids—mom’s suicide, dad’s alcoholism, druggie brothers, and a grandmother who tried to topple the U.S. government like it was a Jenga tower. She lands at Syracuse University, where she falls for her “master,” a 50-something professor who’s been divorced more times than a Kardashian and radiates “I monologue about Nietzsche in bed” energy.

“He was my truth, my freedom, my everything,” Vilar swooned, probably while doodling his initials in her Lisa Frank notebook. “I unbuttoned my blouse just so, and he called me a seductress. I was smitten.” Smitten, Irene? More like spellbound by a guy who’d make a used car salesman look like Prince Charming. By 18, she’s pregnant in his car, lying about her abortion, and letting him “reconnect” hours later because self-respect was apparently out sick that day. “It was love,” she insisted. Sure, and I’m headlining Coachella with a kazoo.

This professor, who sounds like he’d star in a Lifetime movie called The Predator in Tweed, demanded she stay “unformed” and childless, tying her worth to her submission. For 12 of her 15 abortions, she was his puppet, hopping between clinics like she was collecting loyalty points at a shady coffee shop.

The Addiction Angle: Pregnancy as a High, Abortion as the Crash

Vilar’s memoir paints her as an “abortion addict,” which is about as uplifting as a funeral playlist. “I’d get this rush from getting pregnant,” she told Weekend magazine, her Puerto Rican accent lilting like a twisted lullaby. “I’d dream of motherhood, hoard baby booties, then freak out when my husband threatened to bounce. So, I’d hit the clinic like it was a Taco Bell drive-thru. Crunchwrap Supreme, abortion, same energy.”

Her childhood was a trauma buffet—mom jumping from a moving car, dad drowning in booze, brothers chasing highs, and a grandmother who made Bonnie and Clyde look like model citizens. Vilar’s coping mechanism? Use pregnancy and abortion like a warped slot machine, hoping for a jackpot that never came. “Some people snort cocaine; I did fetuses,” she said, probably not grasping how that lands. By her 12th abortion, she was dodging clinic side-eyes, lying about her history, and swimming in self-loathing. But stop? Nah, she was too busy chasing her professor’s approval like it was the last clearance rack at T.J. Maxx.

The Donkey, the Divorce, and the Hallmark Ending (Sort Of)

After divorcing her “master,” Vilar hooked up with a guy she met in the frozen meat section—because nothing screams “fresh start” like flirting over discount chicken wings. Three more abortions followed, because apparently her uterus didn’t get the memo about new beginnings. But then, miracle of miracles, she meets a writer, gets hitched, and pops out two daughters, Loretta and Lolita, who she calls her “little sunshines.” Suddenly, she’s homeschooling with Montessori gear, writing mommy memoirs, and acting like she didn’t just spend 15 years treating her womb like a landfill.

“I’m a survivor,” Vilar crows, ignoring the 15 souls who might beg to differ. “Motherhood saved me.” Sure, and Mr. Hooves is probably penning a TED Talk on resilience. She’s now a literary agent in Colorado, dodging pro-life death threats and X trolls who just spam “Eeyore” GIFs. Her husband’s stuck scrubbing hate comments off the web, because that’s apparently a career now.

The Final Word: A Dumpster Fire With a Side of Donkey Drama

So, what’s the verdict? Is Vilar a feminist trailblazer, a Moloch groupie, or a woman wrestling demons in the messiest way possible? Dr. Harper sums it up: “Irene’s turned her uterus into a performance piece, a sacrificial shrine, and a masterclass in what not to do with a barn at midnight. It’s like if Sylvia Plath, Aleister Crowley, and a blackout-drunk farmhand had a baby, then yeeted it into the void.”

Policymakers are pushing the “Uterine Declutter Act,” offering tax breaks for “womb resets” if you file in a burrito costume. Occultists are hyping MolochCon 2026, where Vilar’s slated to teach a workshop called “Sacrificing With Style: How to Keep Your Dark Lord Happy.” And Mr. Hooves? He’s chilling at a therapy ranch, probably side-eying every human who offers him a carrot.

As for Vilar, she’s out there, broom in hand, uterus gleaming, and Moloch probably sliding into her DMs with fire emojis. So, the next time you’re spring cleaning your attic or your soul, spare a thought for Irene—the woman who turned 15 abortions into a legacy so bizarre it could only exist in America’s fever dream of 2025.

A Plea for Forgiveness

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on us all. Irene Vilar’s story is a gut-punch, a tragedy wrapped in chaos, and I wish with every fiber of my being it wasn’t real. Her pain, her choices, and the lives lost break our hearts and surely grieve Yours. We pray for her healing, for the souls of those 15 children, and for Mr. Hooves, who’s probably just trying to eat grass in peace. Forgive her, Lord, as only You can, and guide us all to Your truth and love. Amen.