Dead or Alive, You're Coming With Me

I’m lucky enough to work in Dublin City Centre. It’s a fabulous place, powered by a charm and wit seldom seen in most modern cities.

I commute to work on public transport and am regularly exposed to a copious amount of interesting sights, hear all types of sounds (a ringtone playing a panpipe version of a Coldplay song, which is surely a contravention of the Geneva Convention) and smells on the bus.

One incident occurred a few years ago. I was on the bus when a young kid of about ten boarded. His arm was in a temporary sling and he was obviously in some pain. I kept a watching brief to ensure he was ok, but kept a distance. This distance was broached rather quickly by the distinctive smell of an impressive volume of vomit. Junior had managed to hurl an entire breakfast (Coco Pops, I believe) a considerable distance across the bus.

I went downstairs to point this out to the driver and he was very helpful, giving me cleaning papers and radioing base. I asked Sir Hurls-a-Lot if he was ok. His response made me shiver.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Sometimes I’m bad!”, he said tearfully. “Oh, fuck”, I thought. “I’m going to end up on a tv programme about battered children.”.

What Pukey Luke actually meant was that he occasionally suffered from travel sickness. He’d fallen down the stairs the previous evening. His mother, a nurse, had brought him to hospital the previous night. She was in work already and he was going to meet her to have the full injury assessed by a consultant.

It didn’t stop me nearly shitting myself.

I’m actually telling you this story in order to tell you another. I once witnessed a high speed Segway cop/Skanger pursuit.

That sentence needs to sit with you a bit. Re-read it. Yes, it does say that.

How did this occur? I’ll tell you, but you may be wondering what a skanger is.

Most cities have a version of this type. In the UK, they’re referred to as chavs. In the US they may have various names. Romantically, they could be classed as a 21st Century Artful Dodger. Ne’er do wells. Petty thieves, pickpockets and general gurriers (a great Dublin word, that). They tend to wear a uniform of very expensive trainers, tracksuits and baseball cap. Their movements tend to be of a jerky, furtive nature, not unlike a pigeon. As a matter of fact, hooking several up to a power grid could power small communities. They refer to people as “bud” or “pal”. Fair warning, they are neither your bud nor your pal. Conversations tend to be about “de Dubs” (Dublin’s gaelic football team), “gear” (drugs), “me oul wan” (mother), “yer man” (someone who isn’t them) or “dat cunt” (someone in who isn’t them whom they don’t like). They’re normally harmless, except during rutting season or on days that have any letter in them.

Anyway, as I said earlier, I commute by bus. In order to make this commute tolerable, I bring an iPod. This is to avoid other peoples taste in music. You know that tinny, high end sound? The one that sounds like a Mexican marching band being launched into a blender? That bugs me. As does people speaking into their mobile phones at a volume that is only acceptable whilst under fire in the Korean War while yelling into a radio that is not far removed from two cans and a piece of string.
“Romeo Foxtrot! This is Charlie Company! Say again! I repeat, say again! What did you think of the game last night?”

The use of an iPod allows me to use my imagination to fill in narratives and dialogue that I can’t hear.

Now for the story…

Recently, the Irish police, an Garda Síochána (Guardians of the Galaxy Peace) acquired Segways to patrol some pedestrianised areas around the main shopping street. These are about as effective as a steel wool vibrator - not comfortable and laughable when turned on. The poor Gardaí on them always seem embarrassed. “Shite”, they think, “I’m going to go on me fuckin’ ear on this piece of shite. It happened to George Bush. And the dozy bollox who owned the company drove one over a cliff. Hope me mates don’t see me. Or me oul wan.”.

Anyway, I’m walking down Grafton Street on the way to work. Approaching me, in a tweaky, furtive manner, is a skanger who has obviously been up to no good. Behind him, a store security guard has called over Robo-Segway Cop and is gesticulating frantically.

At this point, my imagination kicks in. I guess that Tristan (a name I’ll randomly give the ruffian) has pilfered something from the store. The cop sees a moment of heroism in his future. “Stand aside citizen!”, he says, “I am the law!”. He puts his hand/foot down. Tires squeal and smoke somewhere, but not here. Within minutes, the cop has reached half the speed of smell. The stealth pursuit is on.

 The cop approaches Tristan, silently, like a ninja.

 Exactly like a ninja….

 but on a Segway…

 and in Farah slacks.

 He leans in to the wrongdoer and says something.

 In my mind, and to this day, I hope he said “Pull over!”.

Tristan, disturbed from his nefarious ways, tries to put his foot down to get away. He realises he is not in a car. He darts right. He darts left. The cop sticks to his tail in a way only a person on a motorised vehicle following someone on foot can. Tristan pictures himself as Luke Skywalker trying to shake Darth Vader in the Death Star trench.

Unfortunately, he’s actually Biggs. 

The cop makes “bee-baw” noises with his mouth, all the while rehearsing his telling of the story in a bar later. In a cloud of panic, Tristan veers left. He is astonished when his escape route is blocked by the sudden appearance of a 160 year old granite building.

The cop has him now. He pins our scallywag up against the building by reversing and and shooting forward the Segway, presumably making “vroom-vroom” noises.

Real police now appear. They remove the criminal mastermind. The cop trundles off, the theme tune from “Shaft” in his head.

He turns the corner. The music swells.

He drives into fresh hoseshit.

Another tale from the Naked City.

Intolerant? Moi? - Part 2 (or How My Issue Went Transatlantic)

"Anal Leakage" is a odd phrase with which to start a blog entry.

It is also a rather clever way to inform you, dear reader, that, should you be of a sensitive nature, maybe you would be better off reading something else. Nothing immediately springs to mind, but I would suggest reading my preceding blog entry.

Upon starting to write this blog, I showed the first paragraph to my wife. She said "Is this going to involve shitting?".

Yes, it will. It will also involve my mother, the volume level of a TV versus the acoustics of a bathroom, Latin Americans and the curious inability of US toilet doors to correctly fit.

When we last spoke, my intolerance had made its first violent appearance. I did not know the cause of Poomaggedon at that stage and continued eating nuts and having occasional "shit fits". One incident, however, bound cause and effect very clearly.

In June 2006, my mother turned 70. The family all chipped in and bought her a ticket (return) to New York, with an itinerary all organised. My wife, my brother and I went along to act as guides and comic relief (in my case, at least).

I love New York City. It makes me smile. I love its sights, sounds and, oddly, its smells. One particular smell that evokes NYC to me is the roasted nut carts on street corners. For the princely sum of $1, you too can partake of a bag of honey-roasted peanuts in a bag, served to you by someone who believes that hygiene is how you greet a person called Gene.

We landed at JFK and took a cab to downtown Manhattan. Bags were dropped off, rooms assigned and arrangements made. Our first stop was Times Square. Here, tour bus tickets were bought. Then, we had food and beer.

Reading the last paragraph makes me sound all Bill Bryson. Bear with me.

We walked back to the hotel. During our walk, we passed a nut cart. I bought a bag of honey-roasted peanuts and ate. This was the equivalent of John Hurt looking into the egg.

Oh, how I enjoyed that evening, tottering around NYC, family in tow, pointing out the wonderful sights! The Empire State Building looking resplendent! The Chrysler Building, glistening like a 1950s chrome hood ornament. A hooker on Times Square flashing what may have been a penis at a cop car!

We arrived back at the hotel. My mother was deposited in her room and we adjourned to the rather nice bar in the hotel lobby. Beers were had, jokes were cracked, laughs were…laughed. Yet, all the while, trouble was literally brewing below.

The next morning, I awoke, full of the joys of feeling crap. I blamed the flight and the beers. Still, we were all heading on a bus tour of Downtown New York, and I assumed that would help. I even ate breakfast. Little did I know how soon I’d meet it again.

So, off on the tour we went. Mrs PastyFace, being astute, knew something was wrong. Maybe it was the colour of my face (greenish grey), maybe it was the muffled gurgles, creaks and groans issuing from right behind my belly button, maybe it was the beads of sweat on my temples. Personally, I believe it was the copious amounts of poisonous fumes issuing from my ass. 

These were not your common or garden farts. These were the almost burning kind that we’ve all had (haven’t we?). These were the kind banned under various weapon treaties. These were the kind that make people check their shoes.

They were the kind that made me know that both today and I were, pretty much, fucked.

While this Chernobyl in my pants continued, I knew I had to find a bathroom and fast. We stopped at South Street Seaport and went into a bar for lunch. The journey there was and is vague. I know chicken was mentioned and a refreshing beer was offered. I asked for the restrooms. I went in.

Any of you reading this (still) that have been in the US are familiar with the toilets. Firstly, they are quite low. Secondly, they have a very high waterline. They also seem to have a flat bit, slightly above the water, that could be called an inspection shelf. These details are important.

I took a seat and commenced with matters at hand. Once the bomb bay doors were opened, there was no stopping the blitzkrieg. Gallons of…I’m going to say Butterscotch Angel Delight shot out of me at a pace seldom seen in 1980s children’s desserts. This bounced off the inspection shelf and coated my ass cheeks with a burning effluent. What missed the shelf, hit the high water mark causing a parting of the Brown Sea that splashed up my back. 

Not pleasant.

Mercy flush followed mercy flush. Toilet paper did its best, but it was a losing battle. At this point it was merely smearing. I reached over and grabbed some paper towels that were intended for hand drying. They were bigger and perhaps more absorbent. They were! They were also rougher. My poor burning butt was now contending with a sandpaper assault. 

This was not a good day.

At the table, my absence was noted. Mrs PastyFace took it upon herself to knock on the door and enquire as to my wellbeing. My response was along the lines of “Imnotfeelinvurywell”. She said she just wanted to do a bit of shopping and then head back to the hotel. I hosed myself off as best I could and, gingerly, returned to the bosom of my family. 

We ventured over to a mall. There were a number of stores visited quickly. My wife told my brother that I was not feeling 100% (at this point 6% would have been an exaggeration) and we should head back shortly. This was agreed as we should have a rest as my mother would be tired. I knew I needed to lie down.

As this thought struck me, so did a wave of inner mud. I needed a public bathroom and quickly. I walked as fast as a man trying to keep his arse cheeks closed could possibly walk. I found a public convenience.

Another observation about toilets in the US is that the doors have large gaps around them. It is easy to sit inside and look out of the cracks around the door. It’s probably just as easy to do the opposite. This worried me. I closed the ill-fitting door and began leaking sewage. At this point, the tank was almost empty. Now the noisy farts began. It sounded like a mariachi band, which was a pity because just then a group of Latinos entered the restroom. They were talking and laughing but soon stopped when they heard the rolling thunder from cubicle 3.

I exited the cubicle and scoured my hands. I was greeted by silence and muttered phrases that contained phrases like “el diablo”. I left the restroom to a chorus of laughter as one massive cheese cutting fart nearly ripped my trousers. It should be noted that Hurricane Sandy destroyed this area. I think it was Nature scouring those toilet bowls.

I again rejoined our group and got into a cab.

We were at the tip of Manhattan. Our hotel was on 34th Street. New York cabs roll and rock like an Italian cruise liner. You know that scene in “I Am Legend” when Will Smith blasts through New York with no traffic. This cab trip was exactly the same except for every single detail. Traffic was horrendous. My ass was stinging and as I’m sure were the driver’s eyes. This was when you hope that your next fart is not lumpy.

The cab swam and rolled its way to the hotel and stopped. I don’t remember exiting the car. I don’t remember going into the hotel. I remember the elevator trip. Thirty four floors in a metal box with my ass for company is awful. The lift stopped and I bolted for my room. I burst through the door, flinging clothes away and sat on the loo. At this point, it was only air inside me. It had to come out.

The acoustics in that bathroom were some of the finest ever. Warm tones and brown notes were echoing around the room in a manner that Pink Floyd aficionados would love. All I needed was a laser show. My wife entered the hotel room to my loving cry of “DON’T COME IN HERE!!!”. She didn’t. The honking, which now sounded like someone blending a flock of geese, continued unabated and at quite a volume. My wife turned on the TV to drown it out.

My brother then knocked on our room door, concerned at my welfare. My wife did what any loving spouse would do at that point. 

She turned up the volume on the tv.

Love is…

Intolerant? Moi? Part One

I have an issue. 

An issue with nuts.

Some of you have heard this tale, “heard” being the operative word. My intolerance creates some rather interesting and loud sound effects.

In this blog, I will be referring to poop, pooping, sharts, sharting and various other phrases meaning the same thing.

Please don’t think this is a crude, horrid tale. Look on it as a triumph of the human spirit.

This story starts quite some time ago. Back in the dim and distant past, Mrs PastyFace and I used to live about 45 miles from Dublin. This usually meant staying in a friend’s house after any party. This was never an issue.

One friend lived near where we now live. She invited us to stay with her shortly after Christmas. We had never been in the house before, so we were given the obligatory tour. The house we lived in at the time had no upstairs bathroom, so it was rather novel for us to see a house with one AND an ensuite bathroom off the main bedroom! There was only one roll of toilet paper in the house, though. It was in the master bathroom. 

The friend showed us the ensuite. She pointed out the large hole in her sink. It seems her son had knocked something off a shelf and it had passed straight through the sink, leaving a clean circular hole behind it. The sink was right beside the toilet and, at the end of the room, was the shower. 

Obviously, as I have spent this long describing the layout, you have probably figured that it is important. It will be.

So, we enjoy our night. We have a few beers. There are nibbles. Nice nibbles. Marks and Spencer nibbles. Two stand out: cheesy puffs and cashew nuts (some of you now know where this ends).

I tuck in to the nibbles. The cashews are lovely. Roasted, with just the perfect amount of salt. Yummy!

Stupid o’clock arrives and it’s time for bed. As there is only one double bed in the house, we are relegated to the air mattress on the living room floor. Of course, it was not inflated. Thus commenced about 30 minutes of inflating using the world’s most pathetic foot pump. An asthmatic dwarf with one lung could have inflated it quicker. Worn out, I retire to bed/floor.

Early the next morning, the dawn chorus rouses me from my slumber. It was louder than I had heard in a while, but I thought nothing of it at the time. To be clear, the dawn chorus was not the call of birds. It was the thunderous clattering of air shooting out of my arse. It sounded like 42 NASCAR engines all starting up at once, accelerating to full speed and slamming, full force, into Mt St Helen’s as it erupted. This easily measured on the Richter scale. Smaller squeaks, clicks, whirrs and farts emitted from my pantaloon parts, accompanied by what has been described as an odour that is exactly what evil smells like.

There was some moderate pain across my tummy. By moderate, I actually mean that it made John Hurt’s scene in Alien appear like a minor case of heartburn.

Unfortunately, I was not the only one awake. Mrs PastyFace observed me warily. She enquired after my wellbeing. I assured her that it must have been the inflating of the air mattress and that I must have stretched a stomach muscle.

What a pile of bollocks.

I was in some distress. I could not help but notice that the swirling, gurgling, churning feeling in my guts was becoming worse. Also, the stench I was emitting was getting attention from dogs. As I waited to use the shower in the ensuite, I noticed that the noises of my farts were now getting...wetter. Too wet, in fact. Farts should not be lumpy and they should definitely not roll down the back of your thigh.

This did not bode well.

My body then took over. “Right”, said my large intestine, “It’s like this. Either you start sitting over a small water filled target, or we’re going to have to deal with this now”. This internal monologue was replaced by what can only be described as an internal countdown. The countdown started a lot nearer zero than I would have liked. 

I excused myself gracefully from the breakfast table, like a bullet from a gun. I dashed upstairs, flinging clothes behind me. I dove into the ensuite, sat my pasty ass (which matches my pasty face) on the toilet bowl and clung on.

Oh Christ!

Are you familiar with the noise Donald Duck makes when angry? That’s my ass during what I call my “nut episodes”. However, there are now visuals to go with the sounds. If you’ve ever seen footage of US Marines in World War Two, pushing jeeps through thick, gelatinous mud, you’ll get the picture. Chuck in some mascerated cashews for full effect.

It went on. And on. And on. I clung on for dear life. The pain came in waves. The waves would break as a shitload of, well, shit would fly towards the sewers like greased, well, shit off a graphite shovel. 

The stench...Oh my, the stench. I could taste it. It was vile. It wasn’t “odour”. It was “Oh dear!”. In a desperate attempt to kill the stink, I flushed the toilet.

That’s when the fun stopped.

It was around this point that my upper gasto-intestinal tract decided to vie for attention. Burbs started (pooping still going on, by the way). Initially, they were ok. Then they, too, began to get wetter. Wetter and acidic. 

“Oh dear”, I thought. “I’m going to throw up. I’m really unwell. It must have been something I ate. I can’t believe I’m still pooping! Of all the unfortunate things to happen, and at Christmas, too! Luckily, there is a sink beside me.”. At least that is what I would like you to think that I thought.

It was more akin to “AAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!! HEEEEEELLLLLPPPPPPP!!!! ANYBODY!!!! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! OHFUCK! GOING TO PUKE! GOING TO PUKE!GOING TO PUKE!GOING TO PUKE! AT LEAST THERE’S A SINK BESI....”

Well, there was a sink. 

A sink with a hole.

Now, I faced a dilemna. Puke in the sink, and therefore onto the floor. Or stand up, turn around and face the demons below me.

I chose the latter.

I spun as quick as I could, hopping that the chocolate fountain that had now replaced my arse would stop for a moment. I looked into the bowl and saw something that can only be described as a scene of carnage soaked in nightmares. The sight of it made all my blood rush to my brother. The smell hit me and I threw up spectacularly. A technicolour rainbow arced beautifully into the bowl, barely touching the sides of the porcelain.

I was now spinning like a top. Arse onto toilet, do stuff, jump up, switch to face pointing at bowl, do different stuff.

This went on for a while. Then, a calm descended. There were still pops and farts and wet burbs, but all liquid deposits were gone. Clean up time had arrived. I reached for the toilet paper.

There was none.

I dwelled on this. Mulled it over. Thought long and hard.

It was easier to get into the shower. I did. I hosed myself down. 

I went downstairs.

“Are you ok?”, asked Mrs PastyFace.

“Yes”, I said.

The incident had passed.

For now.

There is more to come...

What's the colour of money?

This is a true story.

Honestly.

I have a friend. He is from Boston. He lives in LA. He is smart, funny, tech savvy and black.

Did you see the order of words? Unfortunately, in this story, the last one is the important one.

My friend is tall and broad. He's like Tiger Woods, but without the cash and pussy.

We were wandering around HMV, looking at cd's (and with that sentence, this story immediately dates itself). We were a few aisles apart when I noticed a security guard paying attention to my friend. He noticed the security stares, too.

I was amazed. Not only was this guy following my friend around a store, but he had also managed to prize his eyes away from his mobile phone for more than 2 seconds!

Anyway, my friend and I managed to get either side of the Elite Republican Security Guard. My friend picked up a cd and said, in a broad US accent, "Hey, I can buy this for half the price at home!".

The Elite Republican Guard stopped in his tracks. All his ninja reflexes had been on a heightened state. His hands hovered over his hidden ninja weapon holster, ready for use.

But something was wrong...The voice from the black person messed with his training.

His face dissolved into a misshapen collage of parts, not dissimilar to Wayne Rooney's when confronted with the words "flammable" and 'inflammable".

He had to say something. He had to excuse himself. He had to, and he did. These were his words:

"I'm sorry. You're American. I thought you were black."

I'll let that hang there....

....

....ok.

At this point, I turned into Joe Pesci in Lethal Weapon 2.

"But", I said "he is black. Well kind of cappuccino coloured. Mocha, if you will. Egg-shell tan, as Dulux would call it.". Ok, I didn't say all of that.

The security guard ambled off, no doubt to browse interracial porn at this point, and we went on our way.

It seems to me that the real racism in this country is not about the colour of your skin, but the colour of your money.

Comments

Comments are now enabled. But don't be a dick.

Reality tv

Reality TV is not real

Thinking back to 2000, when Big Brother UK was launched, I would never have envisaged what was to come. Back then, the idea of 12 strangers being placed together in isolation, all the while being watched by cameras, seemed fascinating. It was an extension of MTV’s The Real World, but not cut together for the audience. It was pure, unadulterated voyeurism.

Viewers piled in. Advertisers followed. Money was made. Syndication was guaranteed.

And a curious thing occurred.

Celebrities were created.

Were they created for a talent they had demonstrated? No. These “celebrities” were created by appearing on the show. That’s it. Even the “losers” on the show could become celebrities.

Every season of Big Brother seemed to try and find bigger and bigger personalities to keep people watching. Viewers were teased with the potential of fights, race issues, flirting and nudity by the programme makers to keep them watching. New and horrible challenges were created to provoke a reaction from the people on the show. There was an international race incident during one show that grabbed headlines everywhere.

It was unbelievable!

And that’s the problem. It is not believable. It is not reality. I’ll get back to this in a minute.

Big Brother set the ball rolling. It was followed by Survivor, The Amazing Race, Celebrity Big Brother and variations of the theme. We also had The Osbournes, starring Ozzie and people we did not know at the time. We know them now.

Clever people who make loads of money saw potential. “Hey” they said to each other during blue sky meetings whilst taking the helicopter view of maximising facetime with clients, “there’s gold in them there hills!”. I’m paraphrasing.

They reverted to one of the earlier types of reality tv, the talent show (think Opportunity Knocks with Hughie Green). Pop Idol gave people the chance to vote for a favourite act and buy the song they sing. Voting by text earned the companies a fortune and some (Mr. Cowell) were quick to grasp the opportunity to earn big bucks very quickly. Pop Idol eventually morphed into The X Factor. Get loads of people that can sing and let’s film them auditioning!!!” said the executives. “Wait a second, the people that can’t sing are sometimes more popular. Let’s have more of them!”, they said.

It was unbelievable. Again.

Then we had the creation of the reality tv creature. The Paris Hiltons, the Nicole Richies, the Kardashians, the Real Housewives of wherever.

Does anyone believe this is real tv? Does anyone believe the dramatic pauses in the X Factor are not scripted? Does anyone understand how a person who is, at best, deranged or, at worst, mentally challenged can get to be in front of Cowell et al and sing so poorly?

It isn’t real.

Back at the turn of the 20th century, circuses or carnivals used to tour the US and the UK. Normally contained within the exhibits was the freak show. John Merrick was one such “exhibit” in the UK. He was more commonly known as The Elephant Man. Patrons paid to see the freaks. The bearded lady, the conjoined twins, the man with three legs, the pinheads, the little people! Step right up and see them all!!!

The reality shows mentioned above and “My Big Fat Gypsy…” and its ilk are the new freak shows. Come and see the transgender person deal with the homophobe. Come and see the racist deal with the black person. Come and see the Muslim and the Jew under the one roof.
In reality, these people would never mix in such circumstances. The fake “reality” is created to draw viewers in, to have them stare at the “freaks” and see how they interact. Whatever the social experiment this was at the start is now a freak show, intent on creating the next big thing before the next big thing is created.
People volunteer to be on these shows in the hopes of becoming a successful celebrity. And what are they famous for?

Being on reality tv.

There is only one reality tv creator for whom I have respect. Sir David Attenborough and his crew of film makers capture real life situations involving creatures we will probably only get to see on television. They are in a real world environment (because it is the real world). The camera watches and what happens, happens. There is no voting. There is no dying relative that the creatures are trying to assist. There is just the reality of nature, red in tooth and claw.

The scary thing?

David Attenborough’s shows ratings are tiny compared to some of the shows above. The higher the ratings of the “reality TV” shows, the less of a chance of a new series of the calibre of Blue Planet. Nature documentaries are expensive to produce and do not earn their money back. The “reality” shows cost very little (no script, no actors) and earn advertising and vote money.

Maybe we need to get real.

Not a controversial topic at all...

First real blog. 

On the advice of others (notably the late Bill Hicks), I’ve decided to take on a non-controversial topic. 

I am pro-choice.

Curiously, I am way more pro-life than most pro-lifers and Catholic priests.

I shouldn't really have an opinion, basically, because I don't have a vagina. 

But, as I am a contrary fuck, I have an opinion anyway.

My thing is that if a woman is pregnant, I don't care what she does with her fetus. Keep it until term or whatever, it's her choice. If a female friend or relation of mine is in such a situation that this is the only way out that they can see, I’m sure that she has been through enough inner turmoil already. 

Pro-lifers believe that she must keep it. Pro-lifers believe you must keep the baby even if it is a result of an assault. Baby is paramount, they say.

Most pro-lifers in Ireland are Catholics. 

The Catholic Church and the Pope believe that babies can only be made one way. God's way.

IVF is not God's way. If biology has dealt you a bad hand, "Tough", says the Church. IVF is bad.

As is surrogacy. And egg donations. And sperm donations (The Pope also believes that he speaks for a deity. That's schizophrenic behavior and should be medicated).

All these other ways of creating life, pro-lifers should be against, especially if they want to profess the religious card so handily played by a bloke in a dress and Gucci loafers in Rome. 

I'm pro these choices. So I'm pro-life-lite.

Papal-approved pro-lifers are anti-choice, even about how junior gets made in the first instance.

Hence, I am more pro-life than pro-lifers.

But, curiously, I hate children.