Yes, I’m Pro-Choice. Get over it.

Not sure why the “Pro-Life” folks have decided to keep allowing the zealots to come to the group meetings, but I’m thinking maybe they need to re-evaluate things.

I got dragged into an argument (my fault, I went to WalMart and was minding my own business, a sure recipie for disaster in that place) between two women, one that had the poor taste to wear a button with a “choice” message on her purse.

The zealots don’t listen, and that’s probably because they are too busy screaming and picketing, and demanding that Roe vs. Wade be overturned, and when they get time they are screaming we need a Constitutional Ammendment that defines “marriage” as being between a man and a woman. That’s a pretty full schedule there, so actually talking to someone that’s Pro-Choice would take intelligence, and patience, and listening.

I’m not sure how Pro-Choice got jobbed into meaning “Pro-Abortion”. I’ve never seen a Choice rally where the people on the podium advocated women abort as many unborn as possible. I’ve seen them in favor of women keeping their rights to choose how they want to live their lives. So let’s get this one out there for the Pro-Life people to ignore yet again.

Pro-Choice is NOT “Pro-Abortion”.

I can’t; in my worst mood, see a woman that finds herself unexpectedly pregnant flipping her hair and thinking she’ll just pop the thing out like a pimple. I can’t begin to imagine a woman’s thoughts over deciding to have or not have an abortion. But I can say that as a man it’s not my place to slap down any deterrents if in the end a woman decides that because of the circumstances in her life, she must choose to get an abortion.

As a man, I don’t have to suffer the hormone changes, the body changes, and all the natural consequences of a pregnancy. How can I possibly agree that a woman be forced to bear a child to term, or be considered a lawbreaker?

I would never suggest a woman get an abortion. If my daughter came to me and said she was pregnant and was considering one, then I would talk to her about other options, but in the end the decision would have to be hers to make.

Back to the argument. The woman that was vehemently Pro-Life asked me if I thought abortion should be legal. I’m afraid I tripped her up when I asked what she was doing to provide for the children that were born to women that didn’t want them. Did she make or buy diapers, formula, and clothes? Did she offer to care for the babies while the mothers went and found work? No to both questions. Stumped her I’m afraid when I asked what her ideas were about all the children – obviously unwanted – being born to mothers that couldn’t afford to care for them.

That’s my biggest problem with the Pro-Lifers (well, after their habit of shooting and killing doctors that perform abortions that is). It seems the Pro-Lifers are all about the stopping, but nothing about the consequences of their victory. I don’t see the Pro-Life people or the “Moral Majority” providing for the care of the children. It’s more important that these unwanted offspring make it into the world. Then they can be part of the ugly statistics of increased child abuse, which allows them to grow up and be much more likely to commit a felony, and end up in prison.

Oh hold it. Maybe the Pro-Life people are thinking ahead. Seems most of them are in favor of the Death Penalty. But if I were to suggest that they make their motto “Save The Fetus So We Can Fry The Felon” I’d catch all kinds of Hell.

Wandering thoughts…

Things that hit me while I’m trying to shop, and end up thinking about…

Because of the way a lot of people push shopping carts around, I tend to limit my shopping excursions to the quick-hit, get out fast type. In theory, that should mean I can use the express lanes for faster exits. Fat chance.

If I head for a lane clearly marked “10 items or less”, I will find myself behind someone that can’t count, can’t read, or doesn’t care. In most cases I suspect all of those reasons. Regardless, I stand there with my frozen items steadily thawing while Bertha tosses her 250 items onto the counter to get a tally, and then wait a bit more while she counts out her bill in pennies. This sort of stuff gets me thinking, leaves me wondering, and also gets me more than a little pissed off.

Most of all I’m getting increasingly frazzled by the growing “I don’t give a shit about manners, nor do I give a shit about you, I’m the only important person” attitude.

I’m getting the sense that “parents” now are really some sorry asshats, and there’s a growing fear that I – as a parent – was on the tail end of the generation of people that really were “good parents”. Being on the tail end means that I wasn’t the greatest, but I still managed to raise a child that isn’t going to snap and commit some heinous crime.

I read today that some teenager walked into a shopping mall in Utah and just started shooting. The kid ended up dead, so we’ll really never get any insight into why it happened. My thoughts are that the parents should be tried and punished for failure to care about their son.

There is no way that I – as a teenager – could have gotten to the point where I was so psychotic that I would be able to grab firearms and then head into a crowd of people and start thinning the herd. My parents were on top of me as I grew up. They asked what I was doing in school, they wanted to meet my friends, they knew where I was when I went out of the house. If my parents weren’t home when I got there, the neighbors were caring people, and they would have told my folks if I had people over (which was against the rules in most cases). The neighbors knew my parent’s expectations for me, and they helped enforce those rules.

Today I don’t see that. I see parents that are distant, more tied up in their work, and trying to wedge in some “quality time” with their kids, who aren’t stupid – they know Mom or Dad resent having to force interaction. TV, iPods, the internet – all of these things have become electronic babysitters, and the poor kids are cut loose to figure things out, because Mom and Dad think a V-chip or “parental controls” mean they care.

Violent video games, television shows, movies, and music lyrics don’t turn kids into killers. Distant parents do.

FFOAD – 7-11 Clerk Boy

I try to keep things simple in the morning when I’m headed to work. I like to buy a newspaper, and maybe a Frappucino to sip while I read about world events.

7-11’s provide a nice way to get those things and a tank of gas (for under $2 a gallon!) in one easy stop. At least it’s all set up to look that way.

I use a debit card and fill my tank, and then walk into the store to grab a paper. I see the Starbuck’s Frappucino and get one of those. After that it all goes downhill.

Taking my two items to the counter, the kid at the counter asks “Did you get gas?” Pretty simple answer – “Yes. But I paid for it with my card outsi-”

The kid goes and looks at his “gas machine” or whatever technical name it has. “Which pump?”

“No” I say calmly, “I already paid for it outside. Look, here’s the receipt.”

Clerk Boy is looking out the window, trying to see which pump number my truck is near.

“Hey, are you listening? It’s already paid for. I just need to pay for this paper and coffee.”

Clerk Boy turns. “Did you pay for it already?”

Damn. I knew I should have learned American Sign Language. “Yes.” I bite off the sarcasm. Yay me.

Then it gets worse. Clerk Boy looks at the register like it’s some alien technology, and he is the first to find it, and must now research it and bring forth its secrets to the world. I decide to preempt any potential problems and get out cash to pay for the paper and coffee.

Clerk Boy is still checking out the register like a cave man would investigate his first encounter with fire. I’m starting to boil over now. I’ve spent longer in the store at the counter than I did pumping an entire tank of gas. I want to get to work. I express those sentiments – somewhat rudely – to Clerk Boy. This action generated a visit from the Manager (Yes, and in perfect “Simpsons” stereotype, it was an Indian) who was “concerned” over my tone of voice.

I explained the situation, and the Manager took my cash and bid me on my way. Did he teach Clerk Boy how to use the damn register? Didn’t appear to. He closed the register, handed me my change and walked immediately back into the back room, apparently leaving Clerk Boy to torture the next unsuspecting customer.

So Clerk Boy, start the weekend right. It’s Friday. FOAD.