Roe v. Wade was decided in 1973, one year after I graduated from high school. For nearly two centuries in our history, unborn children were recognized as members of the human race with the same right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as any other person. Roe changed all that.  Unborn babies became fetuses, parasites, bits of protoplasm completely bereft of any rights at all.  In the last 43 years, over 60 million fetuses have been aborted in the US alone and, of that 60 million, 18 million were black. Worldwide, an estimate of nearly 1.5 billion babies have been aborted since the Roe decision pushed the green light for the US in 1973.

How important are these figures? Since 1973 there have been approximately 158 million live births reported in the US. (Stay with me now, dear reader, there is math.) That means there have been 218 million US pregnancies in the US reported since Roe was decided. Of those pregnancies, a full 27 percent were aborted. Put another way, more than one in four children conceived in the US since Roe have been destroyed, are lost and forgotten.

The numbers: 60,000,000 lives lost. How is this not the greatest tragedy of the last half-century? How is this not the most horrific loss of life ever in the recorded history of mankind? How is this not suicide of the species?

Trump … I mean, Conan, what is best in life? “To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women.” I’ll settle for this though. Haha. Liberal hysteria first day…..

View original artwork here.

A poverty tour. That’s my cynicism, and maybe a bit incorrect if you want to get into the meat of things. My experience with poverty, which is obviously limited by geography, is that the solution is rarely virtually never wealth. When poverty is the problem, it is more likely only a symptom, and it is almost assured that wealth will be fleeting. But as morticians develop a dark humor, so do I suspend reality and refer to a poverty tour, which was really just driving around in the worst of neighborhoods looking for confirmation of a hunch. A hunch better left unconfirmed, and I wasn’t expecting much more than the usual surreal backdrop-painting from my poverty tour; so it felt almost jolting when I ran into Steve at the corner of Fair and, well … an off-ramp, right where Fair turns into B.

Steve is a liar and a thief. He is a liar and a thief, a schemer and a cultist of the Id; he is a creature in some desecrated form of a man, who makes me feel less of a man for that constant reminder that there are creatures, like him, who I can’t quite bring myself to visualize as men. A dog, surrounded by crumbs and shreds of wrapper, will avert his eyes and tuck his tail between his legs, but the noble and loyal dog, to his credit, feels shame, and I would never condescend to name a dog Steven. But I did look this creature in the eyes, subconsciously hoping for him to drop the sign, walk over to his car (one of his cars), which was parked a block south, and head home with his tail between his legs.

A little Febreze, a splash of alcohol, and some Disney Animatronics and the Left is all set.