As I was walking back from class on Friday, I was able to detect from a distance protesters on a street corner along my path. I couldn’t quite make out their signs, but as I grew closer, much to my dismay, it became clear that they were abortion protesters with a picture of a mutilated baby. Of course they have a right to say what they please where they please! But there is such a thing as common decency. These people evidently have little regard for it.
I approached them.
“Your sign is very rude,” I said, frowning at them.
“But ultimately effective! Why isn’t abortion in the history books when the holocaust is?”
“Because it’s more historically relevant,” I reply, furrowing my brow. “It was part of a much larger conflict. And I don’t want to hear you argue that one is more tragic than the other. But back to my original point, your picture is very rude.”
“Yes, it is,” the round older woman of the three answers. “What’s your name?”
I decide to lie.
“Joe,” I say.
We shake hands. The other girl introduces herself as Sarah and shakes my hand. She has sideburns and I will admit I did my best not to cringe. We are talking 1820 English gentleman from London challenge you to a duel mutton chops. Gosh darn. I want to ask her where her tophat is and if she is aware that if she doesn’t leave now she’ll miss the steam locomotive to Indian Territory. The lone male with them shakes my hand without giving me his name so I ask it. He looks down avoiding eye contact.
I am incredulous.
“Gandolf? What, seriously?” I ask. My eyebrows are so high that The Rock seems like an emotionless, botox stuffed soap opera diva.
He shrugs and hesitates. “Eh… yeah.”
“Give me your driver’s license,” I tell him, holding out my hand.
It was true. The man’s name was Gandolf Jackson.
And I can say this for sure after meeting a man of such magnitude.
Abortion, your days are numbered.