ABORTION MARCH ON WASHINGTON

Ted: Okay, so, it’s this Pro-Life March on Washington, right? And there’s hundreds of ‘em, the fat and the deformed and the religious and the crazy, all together in a huge mass with their signs and their bibles and their billboard-sized pictures of discarded fetuses in garbage cans. So, they’re really whooping it up, right? They’re chanting their slogans and screaming at passersby and it is a real toodle-oo. So they walk all the way from…from I don’t fuckin’ know, but basically they end up rallying at the Washington Monument, all arrayed around the reflecting pool, pointing towards this huge stage at the base. Yeah, right, the one where the famous civil rights march one was and shit.

So, anyway, everybody does their little speeches, and there’s a couple of terrible Christian rock bands that everybody pretends are good, and then they get to the headliner, Reverend Phillip Ansley, and he is a piece of work. So he hits the stage and these Pro-Life fuckers go bananas like he was the second coming of Elvis or something. And he’s working it, stalking back and forth, mopping his brow, calling out for “Amen”s and testification. And they are eating it up. So then he brings it down for a minute so they can murmur quiet prayers for the hellbound souls of these malformed chitterlings, and in the middle of that quiet suddenly intrudes the “meep meep meep” of a truck backing up. And there it is, a great big eighteen-wheeler, at the opposite end of the reflecting pool. The unseen driver hits the hydraulics and the trailer tilts back until it empties its load into the pool, and what a load it is.

Hundreds of thousands of blood-soaked fetuses dump into the water with a great and terrible schlupping sound, and the water turns red, and the air is filled with a nauseating, coppery stench. The crowd screams as one, but this soon turns to an almost silent awe as the undead fetuses begin swimming towards the monument. Like a thousand little tadpoles they wriggle back and forth through the water, occasionally breaking the surface like playful little dolphins. And the crowd is totally speechless, right? Mouths agape, eyes blank with horror. So the fetuses make it to the other end and crowd the pool near the front of the stage, and one of them literally flops its way up onto the platform. So then it wriggles up the side of the podium like some horny teenage romeo trying to shinny up a drainpipe and hobbles to the microphone while the Right Reverend Ansley actually shits his pants.

And then the tiny creature begins to speak, a terrible, lisping high-pitched cross between Mickey Mouse and Carol Channing. And it tells the crowd that it is their obsessive attention that is keeping the fetuses alive, that it is their constant prayer and worry and energy that is keeping them from attaining what little rest they can get by passing from this hellish half-life of unremitting pain. And the little bugger basically asks them to knock this shit off so they can all die in peace. So, finally the Reverend recovers from soiling himself and leans into the microphone over the homunculus and tells the crowd to disregard what is obviously the work of the unholy Pro-Choice left, and the fetus looks up at him, and do you know what it says?

Ed: I. Don’t. Know.

Ted: “Daddy?”