So, I decide I’ll go get myself a physical. It’s real, real cheap on my new job’s insurance, so I figure to myself I figure, sure, why not? Find out what my cholesterol is, whether or not there’s a medical explanation for being so attractive. That sort of thing. So I go in, let them take some of the sanguinary fluid, wizz in a cup, tip my hat and I’m on my way.
Outside, there’s a kid with a clipboard hanging around the back of my truck. As I walk up, he eyeballs me sort of funny, like he’s trying to get my attention without trying to get my attention, if you know what I mean. He looks like I did in high school: skinny and not all that bright. So, as I open the door, I say something real classy, deep and philosophical, like “what’s up?” or “yeah?”. The kid looks at the clipboard, then at me, and points up the street and tells me he’s writing down licence plate numbers. Up the street, there’s a cluster of anti-abortion protesters. 3′ x 4′ posters of babies painted red, the whole nine yards. I saw them once before, when I went to set up the physical, and they seemed well mannered enough. They didn’t have the posters that first time. I think they like to come out between 8 and 9 AM because there’s a grade school up the street, and all the buses have to drive past them.
Anyway, I tell the kid to get out of here, rather I say to him getouddahereyo, and he says “smile for the camera.” I don’t really understand what he’s getting at, and as I’m driving away, I see that across the street there’s a bunch of middle aged men with a video camera on a tripod, filing everyone who goes in and out of the medical complex.
Now, I don’t really know who they’re protesting. I doubt my gastroenterologist gives abortions on the side, or that they’re being carried out at the travel agency next door to him. But I do know one thing: those protesters are trying to send a message, and the message is “We know where you live, we know who you are, and we’re going to find you.”
No, seriously, screw that. Maybe those guys were just trying to get leads on some sexually active young women, but I doubt it. Anyway, zealots! You have my face. You have my licence plate. Come find me! Why keep intimidating young, vulnerable women? Come try and intimidate a sweaty, hair covered nutcase with a screwdriver in his pocket. I will ruin your afternoon, assholes.