No rest for the wicked

My wife and I were driving home from a lovely afternoon visit to her grandmother, my son's great-grandmother. We had just taken the off ramp to our street, when my wife said, "What the hell?"

I looked around for a traffic problem, maybe a car cutting another off, but didn't notice any major issues. I looked back at her and asked "What?"

She didn't answer. It took me another few seconds for my mind to piece together what I was seeing. Two identical trucks, joining the highway ahead of us, were painted with photos of aborted fetuses. These were of the graphic nature that would recently only have been available on extremist's websites. Body parts scrambled, dead near-term infants.

It was horrible and nauseating.

But I just let it go. I know that there are seriously fucked up people out there, and when they are not busy telling us what we should be allowed to see TV, they are busy telling us of God's love. Or they are driving trucks with graphic photos of abortion on every surface.

I wonder how far I would be able to drive with a picture of a decimated city, the lifeless strewn on the roadside like so much garbage? On the other side of the truck, I might paint a picture of an Arab woman, stooped over the charred remains of her youngest son. And on the back, so that everyone following me could see it, I would paint a jawless, dead American soldier. His hair would be slicked with blood, and his extremities would blackened or missing.

How would you like to see this, America?

I'm so angry, and it's not because of what I've seen. It's because these images made my wife cry.

Fuck you, you heartless bastards. Feel your righteousness now. I know you feel stongly, I know. But one day, exposed breasts will be on every television station, Howard Stern will be the voice of your microwave and your dirty, ill-begoten children will love every damn minute of it. Mark my words, your fanaticism will end.

And with it, any thoughts that I waste thinking about hating you.