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The bloody fetus poster

This morning I dropped my 16-year-old daughter off at high school. While rolling down the street toward the final destination, we passed the above man, holding the above sign.

I wasn’t furious, so much as I was annoyed. My daughter said, “Are you gonna say something?”

“Yes,” I said. “I will.”

So I rolled down the window and said, “Just not the right place, man. Not the right place.”

I immediately regretted my choice of words.

What I should have said—what I wish I’d said—was, “Hey, buddy. Can I ask you a question? How many kids have you adopted? I’m just wondering, because I assume—as a pro-life guy who stands in front of my kid’s school holding a bloody fetus poster—you’re adopting a whole slew of children who were born. Right, buddy?”

Silence.

“So … buddy. Those kids. How many? And since you’re standing here—bloody fetus sign in hand—show me photos of your kids. I’m sure you’ve got ’em. iPhone technology and all. Lemme see the photo you took of your adopted son, who was born to the 12-year-old girl who was raped by her cousin. Because, I mean, you insisted she deliver the baby; that God wanted it that way. So show me, buddy. Show me.”

Silence.

“How about the baby who was born without working lungs. You said it’d be a sin to abort, because all humans are perfect in God’s eyes. So lemme see. Show me the photos, Daddy. I’m sure you’re doing as God and Jesus demand, and are taking in the poor, the needy, the downtrodden.”

Silence.

“Right, buddy? Right?”

Silence.

“Oh, wait. You’re just some dick with a sign.”

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