corrente

This morning, on my way to Reading Terminal Market to buy the week's pound of caffeine, I encountered a passel of chanting fundamentalists with a flag, and a bunch of huge photos of fetuses. They used very loud microphones—and an eight-year-old boy was doing the preaching. I gave them a little, well, "body language," but maybe I should have called child protective services.

I used to believe there might be a God, but after seeing these clowns, I'm starting to swing toward the idea that there isn't. Yech. FTF.