Conversations With Rex

Some of my best discussions are had with my little buddy, Rex. He has a look that oozes intelligence and personality, while drawing smiles from anyone he encounters. His amicable and steadfast temperament, willingness to listen to my daily complaints or woes, and general all-around love for his mommy and daddy make him the perfect companion.


Rex's innate wisdom and desire to share his own life experiences make it so much easier for me to engage him in dialogue. He was, after all, imprisoned for several months for a crime he did not commit. After adopting Cathy and me, he explained his dilemma in a way only Rex can--


On Prison


Rex--Prison life sucks. I was in a cage, man. Water and a little food each day, paper to pee on, and PT time for an hour. The prison guards were pretty nice, but some of the cats in cells next to me talked about wanting to sink their teeth into me and shake the life from my eleven pound carcass.


Me--That sounds terrible.


Rex--Dude, ain't no prison in North Korea that could touch what I went through. I was a DOW


Me--DOW?


Rex--Dawg of War


On Being a Eunuch


Rex--I woke up, looked down, and suddenly I was a doggie priest. Who does that to someone, man?

Me--Wasn't me, son. I wouldn't have done that to you.


Rex--*points at self*  All this, and no woman will understand what Rex love is about. It's a shame, really.


On Pooping Outside


Rex--I do what I want.


On Grabbing our Shoes and Putting Them on the Couch


Me--I don't understand your shoe fetish. Why do you seek out our shoes and put them on the couch or the bed?


Rex--Look, man. I can only lick my butt for so many hours when you're at work until I lose my mind. You leave your shoes within reach and I'm like, "Challenge accepted."


On Sleeping in our Bed


Me--You know you have your own bed, right?

Rex (L) and your author (R)

Rex--Yeah, I have my own bed, but yours is much more comfortable. Besides, I can't really see the television from the floor. Watching the news before I doze off is the recipe for a good night's rest.


Me--*rolls eyes*


Rex--Don't do that. Your eyes will get stuck in your skull.


On Sniffing Tires


Me--Why? What's the fascination?


Rex--I can't explain it. Some people with OCD have to place things in a certain order, I have to smell every tire on every vehicle in a two mile radius.


Me--Yeah, but sometimes you pee on them then sniff them again.


Rex--Mind your own business.


On Fishing


Me--It would be pretty cool if you could fish with me.


Rex--*blank stare*


Me--What?


Rex--I don't have any thumbs.


This is just a sample of our conversations. Sometimes we discuss geopolitical issues, or have conversations centered on religion. He is a devout Catholic, but has been caught drinking Holy Water on a few occasions. Apparently, that is frowned upon.

Nap time

There's a Pony in a Luggage Rack

Traveling can be exciting, strange, and bizarre, most especially if you are on the lookout for the aforementioned. In all my years on the road or in the air, I've yet to have a totally uneventful trip. There are those things in airports, truck stops, gas stations, and hotels that make your head snap and your brain question your current reality. I've been accused of having an eye for detail--perhaps it is just the story teller in me that seeks for everything outside the scope of the mundane--and an ability to exaggerate for the sake of the tale. This is NOT one of those times. 


Cathy, Cassidy, and I hopped a plane in the wee hours of the April 8th in Atlanta, Georgia heading to Dallas, Texas. We missed our flight the previous day because of a tragedy that I won't cover here; let's just say it was very heart-wrenching. As a result, we were forced to move our flight to the next day for a quick in/out into Dallas followed by a two hour drive to Arkansas to see our son married to his lovely new bride.


After landing in The Big D, we shuttled to the rental car center at Love Field and began the cross-Texas drive to Texarkana to (hopefully) get into our hotel rooms ad catch a nap before the wedding. Since we would be arriving into Texarkana around eleven in the morning, we had not held out much hope for an early check-in, as hotels often do not want to rush their weekend cleaning crews around to accommodate a couple people. I don't blame them for that, but we were very tired and needed sleep.


We arrived at the hotel, the name of which shall be redacted, walked inside and began begging for mercy.


After some finagling with the desk clerk, we managed to upgrade our rooms to suites (oh, yeah!) and headed to the elevator, all of us with road-weary looks on our faces, but with broad smiles knowing that very soon we would be napping until it was time to get ready for the wedding. We walked Cassidy to her room, swept through to make everything was in order and to assure no boogey men were hiding in the closet or tub then made our way to our room. I was dragging behind Cathy because I stayed to give Cassidy a couple last minute instructions. By the time I made it to our room, she was standing outside the door, her eyes the size of half dollars.


"I think there's someone in our bathroom," she said.


"Nooooo," I replied, the disbelief apparent in my voice.


I walk to the bathroom door and knock and receive a sharp reply, "I'm in here!"


We didn't know who "I" was, but I immediately pick up the phone and called the front desk, explaining what we've just encountered in our room.  While I'm speaking to the young lady at the desk, the toilet flushes and out walks a gentleman with a newspaper tucked under his arm. He grabs a clipboard he had placed on an end table and walks out  while simultaneously apologizing for being there. We came to understand that he was the hotel engineer and, I'm speculating here, he made use of the suite as his personal break room, made apparent by the use of the restroom, the television he left on, and the two slices of pizza that I found in the refrigerator.


Within seconds, the worst imaginable smell began wafting through our room. Cathy and I were both still in shock as the engineer walks back into the room with cleaning supplies in hand. He proceeds to clean the toilet, which did little for the stench emanating from the bathroom. I look at Cathy and can see the same thought on her face that is running through my mind: Is it common practice for hotel employees to use a clean room before guests arrive?  I know, I know...there are things we really do not want to think about, and this is certainly one of them.


The desk clerk vehemently apologized, found us another suite on a different floor and put us in there. Within minutes of my head hitting the pillow, I was asleep. Cathy chose to stay awake for fear of not falling asleep later that evening, but I did not share her concern--I needed some shuteye. 


My boy's wedding was nice and went off without drama, which is a very good thing for a wedding. Afterward, we drove from Hope, Arkansas, the site of the wedding, back to our hotel in Texarkana. I fell asleep without much fanfare, thankful no one was dropping a deuce/making Mr. Stinky in our bathroom upon our return.


And if that was not enough, this is when things got weird


Apparently, Cathy and Cassidy did not sleep nearly as well as I did. We walked to the breakfast area of the hotel early in the morning on the 9th of April to get a little food in us before the long drive back to the airport in Dallas. After eating, we climbed into the rental, turned west on I-30 and began driving on the flat Texas interstates that, at least to the casual observer, appear to be black top to eternity. Texas is larger than most countries, with terrain that allows a cow to graze unobstructed across ranchland for miles on end without breaking a sweat. It is as flat as a tabletop, and the white lines on the road serve little purpose other than to hypnotize a driver of a vehicle faced with having to drive across it.


As I stated, Cathy and Cassidy did not get the same amount of sleep I did, and quickly fell asleep in the car while I drove. I have grown accustomed to being the only one awake in a vehicle; this serves as reflective time for me and I really do not mind at all. Just past Rock Wall, Texas, however, I was forced to wake Cathy. She had to see this and I needed a witness.


A fellow was driving an SUV with one of those luggage racks that attach to a trailer hitch. It looked very similar to this:

Standing on that luggage rack was a Shetland pony. I kid you not. The pony had a gorgeous buckskin coat with a blonde mane that was getting slung around by the wind as the driver pushed eighty miles an hour down the interstate. I shook my head to make sure what I was seeing was real. A freaking pony was standing in a luggage rack with no other supports surrounding it. To top it off, the animal was staring at me! Immediately, my mind went into overdrive and within a couple of seconds I imagined an entire conversation with this mini-horse. It went something like this:

Me: Are you aware that you're standing on a luggage rack attached to a vehicle driving eighty miles an hour on an interstate in Texas?


Pony: Do I look like an idiot to you? I realize ponies get no respect from humans because we aren't big and strong like our full-sized brothers and sisters, but that makes us no less intelligent. Do you ask human midgets questions like this?

Me: I've never seen a midget in a luggage rack.


Pony: Oh, so now you're a comedian, huh? Did you know ponies can suffer from depression and tend to be suicidal?


Me: Wait, what?

Pony: That's right. We are laughed and pointed at our entire lives. Kids want to ride us all the time, and for God's sake, when we are moved, we're put on a luggage rack! Do you have any idea how humiliating this is?
Me: I'm getting a pretty good sense of it, yes.

Pony: Why couldn't I be placed in a horse trailer like a regular horse? Who the hell puts a pony on a luggage rack and drives down the road?
Me: Man, I don't know what to say.

Pony: Oh, I've got more problems, and since you're here, I'm going to tell you all about them.
Me: I'm sorry, but I have to wake my wife up right now to see this. No one will ever believe it.

Pony: I hate you, man. You're going to wake her up so you can both laugh and point, aren't you?
Me: I have to, Mr. Pony.

And that is how our weekend went--from a guy sawing brown logs in our bathroom to a pony in a luggage rack.

The Worst Part of Having My Wisdom Teeth Removed

I've told this story on several occasions, mostly when I hear folks talking about trips to the dentist. Almost twenty years ago I had my wisdom teeth extracted after years of dealing with them moving up and down, cutting through my gums and sending me into fits of rage that can only be compared with driving in Atlanta, Georgia.


I was twenty-nine years old, married and the father of two fine daughters and a son. I had long hair (one length, having left my mullet days behind me a couple years earlier), chewed tobacco, cheered for the Crimson Tide, and had four teeth that were placed in my mouth to test my tolerance, patience, and understanding of anyone in my way. They hurt, and would cut through my gums monthly like a baby teething. I would salivate and catch drool as it ran down my chin. Sometimes I didn't even bother to wipe it off.


Eventually, I couldn't take it anymore and made an appointment with an oral surgeon to, as he explained, "extract my wisdom teeth." Later, I would learn that 'extraction' was a fancy term used to leave four massive pockets in my gums that would heal at approximately the same rate of time that it took Moses and his followers to find the Promised Land. He wrote me a prescription for a Valium, told me to take it one hour before my appointment then bid me farewell.


The day of my surgery rolled around, and as instructed, I took my Valium and headed to his office. I completed my paperwork and spoke with the admin about my procedure, when she interrupted and inquired, "Did you take the Valium like you were told?"


"Sure did, but I'm not feeling anything. Shouldn't I be loopy or something?" I asked.


"Yep. I'm going to have the doctor give you another one. Wait here," she replied.


A couple moments later she returned with my second Valium, which I took dutifully before having a seat in the waiting area.


Twenty minutes later I was being hustled to the back of the assembly line, er operating room, where the doctor promised to put me to sleep, remove the teeth, then send me on my way. I received an injection of some sort, and was told to breath deeply into the mask placed over my nose. Still, the Valium refused to play nice, so I was counting on whatever concoction the good doctor had conjured up to knock me out.


A few minutes later, I sat in the chair, my mouth stuffed with gauze and a contraption to hold my mouth open that could only remind me of the Gimp scene in Pulp Fiction. It was uncomfortable and a little embarrassing, but I took solace in the fact that I would soon be sound asleep and as uncaring as a deer just as the cross-hairs were placed on its heart by some happy hunter.


"Um, Mr. Upton," the surgeon began, "I'm going to gas you again because you haven't fallen asleep."

I grunted something unintelligible through circus contraption stuffed into my mouth. He obviously took that as an "okay," because the mask was once again placed over my mouth and nose and I was instructed to breath deeply. I'm pretty sure I inhaled the entire tank placed behind my chair, and wanted desperately to speak to see if my voice changed pitch like it would when I inhaled helium. That was a "no go," as the doctor tapped his foot impatiently while he waited for me to pass out.


"Sir. I have no idea why you aren't asleep, but I cannot legally give you anything else, because you will likely die," the doctor stated.


*Another series of grunts from me*


"I understand, but we've got to take those teeth out," he responded to my Neanderthal sounds.


*My eyes get really, really wide and I emanate a series of sounds that were probably laced with a string of expletives that he either understood or anticipated*


"Right. I'm going to numb your mouth with a series of locals then we're going to take those teeth out," he explained.


On my right side, I realized the good doctor was paying a lady to do nothing but gently stroke my arm and hand in hopes of calming me down. It wasn't working, but I appreciated her dedication. I turned my focus back to the doctor who was holding a stainless steel syringe with a needle that, if laid on the ground, could have easily shown a football team how far they needed to travel to be awarded a first down.


*A much louder series of grunts spew forth from my gauze packed, Gimp lined mouth. I thrashed about in my chair as the hygienist continued stroking my arm. I thought about going Total Recall on her and choking her into submission, but I'm a gentleman and focused my Hulk-like tendencies on the doctor*


He jabbed the first needle into the roof of my mouth. I'm not 100% certain, but I think he took three steps backward to avoid the punch he was sure was about to be launched. A second time he came at me with his stainless torture device then plunged the needle deep into my gums. I focused on his testicles and was on the verge of sending them into orbit when he took another fast step backward.


"This guy is pretty quick," I thought.


Four more shots and he said, "I think we're ready to begin the extraction."


He asked his assistant for a tool that looked like a Viet Cong truth instrument and a flathead screwdriver.


My next thought was, "I wanted him to take my teeth out, not change the lock in my mouth.  WTF?!"  I don't know if Internet acronyms were around then, but you get my drift.


The doctor slid a knee onto my thigh and remarked, "I can't believe you're still awake."


*I grunted something along the lines of agreement*


His knee slipped into groin and I screamed. The doctor apologized and must have seen my skin beginning to turn green. The hygienist rubbed my arm vigorously. Cautiously, he returned to my mouth with his chisel and array of death tools and began hammering on my mouth. His knee slipped back into my testicles.


Did you know there is a distinction in the shades of red when a person is embarrassed and another person is insane with rage? The Massaging Hygienist made this incredible revelation as my eyes tracked on the doctor while he moved to the side of my chair, obviously hesitant to replace his knee on my neighbor and his two friends.


After a couple eternities, the doctor had removed my four wisdom teeth, and held them proudly in front of my face. I couldn't feel my mouth, but my testicles felt like a well used punching bag and the hair on my right arm had been removed by The Massaging Hygienist.


I got home and my wife and kids decided they needed to take a nap as badly as I did. I laid down on the couch and drifted off, remembering the warning I had been given before leaving the dentist's office, "Don't try to go to the bathroom by yourself. You've lost a lot of blood, have a lot of drugs in your system, and you could injure yourself without help."


I woke up on the couch and to a quiet house. Everyone was still asleep except for yours truly. I did what most normal people did after having teeth pulled--I felt around my mouth with my tongue. Gauze piece number one: check. Two: check. Three: check. Four: It was MIA.


"You've got to be kidding me. I swallowed that nasty thing while I slept?" I thought to myself.


It was then I realized two things: one, I had to pee, and two, I wasn't going to ask anyone for help because I had been peeing on my own most of my adult life, or maybe longer...I couldn't really be sure.


I stumbled down the hallway, making it about halfway before dizziness set in and I thought I would pass out. My shoulder hit the wall and I trudged forward like a good soldier on a mission to find the enemy, or in my case, go pee. I managed the sharp right turn into my bathroom, dropped my pants and sat down on the toilet like a girl. I'm not even afraid to admit this to you, Faithful Reader. My head was spinning like a strobe light in a redneck bar.


Once I was finished with my business, I drug myself back down the hallway and turned into the living room in search of our couch. The coffee table that I so hated was laying in front, as though to mock me for the unfounded vitriol I felt for it. (I can't really explain my disdain for coffee tables, but I really do detest them.)


My pillow was within sight. I took two big steps toward the couch, ready to plop down and go back to sleep, but as I did so, I slammed my left pinky toe into that bastardly coffee table. In my head I could have sworn I heard it laugh. The drugs the doctor had hit me with earlier must have had a delayed effect on me, because as I lay down I glanced at my left foot. Blood oozed from the toe that used to look like its nine brothers. Now, the tip of my left pinky toe stared straight up at me.


"Man," I mumbled, "that is going to hurt when I wake up."


And THAT was the worst part of having my wisdom teeth removed.

Spring Time and Stuff

This is both my favorite and least favorite time of the year. Why? The days get much longer and warmer, and yes that is a good thing, in my opinion. But the new greenery is predicated by copious amounts of pollen, which seep into my sinus cavity then down to my chest like a slow moving predator that slowly eats its prey a small morsel at a time. I hack and cough, sputter and whine for a couple weeks until my body slowly acclimates to the seasonal change. I suppose you could say I go through a transition (since that term is used like syrup on pancakes these days).


That said, the best part of Spring for me is my prospective garden. It's that time of year that I break out my tiller, spend lots of money on dirt (what??) and plants so I can eat something I could most likely buy cheaper at the store.


On the downside, I have to mow every weekend, and since Cathy and I maintain two households, that means mowing two yards. Just yesterday I pulled the ole push mower out, hit a piece of chert (that's a sharp porous rock for those who have never seen it), watched a spark fly from under the mower deck and a small piece of the rock remove a quarter sized piece of my epidermis on my left leg. Yeah, that was pleasant.


There is an area in our back yard that we have chosen as the site of our garden. Morning and afternoon sun shine down on it like a cop's spotlight in a methhead's face on the side of Interstate 20 in Atlanta. It's a glorious thing. And we have tall pines in the back that provide shade for the garden during the hottest part of the day. I anticipate a wonderfully tasty haul of fruits, vegetables, and herbs this coming year. 😊


Heck, I really have no problem weeding the garden, as it gives me peace of mind to be one with the tomatoes. In fact, bringing a timely and immediate death to those garden invaders brings a smile to my face. It's an enjoyable experience when you pull a weed up by the roots and throw it to the side so it dries out like clay in a kiln.


So, y'all get out there and enjoy your Spring and Summer. I look forward to sharing photos of our garden as it grows and will most likely share some shots of Cathy's miraculous food she prepares with our fresh fruits and veggies.

Peace, love, and okra to all y'all!  

Will the Real Liberal Please Stand Up Pt. 9 (peractum est opus)

Like all languages, English has evolved over generations of speakers. It is hardly recognizable from its centuries old England born great-great-grandfather, from whence its complicated rules of grammar were developed and refined. Dialects aside, a general comparison of English spoken in the United States versus that spoken in England, Scotland, or Ireland can sometimes leave the listener wondering how on earth the two are related.


Also, as with most languages spoken globally (I would say all, but I don't know if that is entirely accurate), English was modified, codified, and morphed by men.  For eons, men worked outside the home, interacted with other men on their respective job--IE. farming, trades, etc.--and developed new words as a result.


Prior to, but mostly after the women's suffrage movement did a push begin by ultra-feminists to make English less masculine and more gender neutral. Their argument has been that many words in the English language denote feelings, anxieties, and a plethora of other emotions and actions that are largely masculine in nature. One gross mischaracterization is the use of the word men when speaking neutrally about mankind, or all men being created equally. The obvious intent is gender neutrality, at least as perceived in the twenty-first century.


Leftists feminists have pushed the envelope for a gender neutral language since their inclusion in modern academia. On the surface, the movement seems less abhorrent than it truly is. After all, what is wrong with equality in language?


To answer this question, one must consider the extreme leftist movement of the 1960's in conjunction with similar socialist movements throughout Europe. De-gendering the language means controlling it. When language is controlled, media is subsequently folded neatly into a box that, once pushed inside, cannot be undone.


Once print and electronic media is managed on a large scale, thought and actions are much easier controlled. You may be asking, "What is the point in all this?"


The obvious answer is manipulation. The less obvious response is political activism. Imagine if you can, everyone suddenly becoming offended by something spoken or written. Despite the unlikeliness of this ever happening, consider if you would George Orwell's 1984, a novel depicting a futuristic world where only one crime could be committed--thinking outside the established status quo.


Now, you may already be thinking, "But so many are offended by the silliest of things these days!" You would be correct in your assumption, and see beyond the blatant attempt at sarcasm I posed in the previous paragraph.


Should we allow our politicians and the academics of the nation control our language, both spoken and written, we are doomed as a society. I'm not merely speaking about our First Amendment rights, but more along the lines of thought control. Yes, it is plausible, and yes, it is happening.


To control your words is to control your thoughts, your actions, and your ability to resist their brand of politics. I say to you: resist the urge to conform!

Will the Real Liberal Please Stand Up Pt. 8

White shaming. White man-hating. White apologists. Many of us scratch our heads at the obsession of race and race shaming perpetuated by the left. Why do they feel the need to focus so heavily upon white men? What have white men done to any of them, whoever they are, to foster so much hate and resentment?


Let us not gloss over the western expansion of the United States at the expense of Native Americans, nor shall we ignore our horrendous slavery ridden history. We all understand how disgusting the slaughter of one group of people was, and the inexcusable exercise of human slavery here in the United States. And lest someone scream that, "It was white men who did that," yes, we can all agree that white men were responsible for those heinous acts.


Unfortunately for leftists, we all live in the twenty-first century; over one hundred fifty years since the abolishment of slavery and around the same for the end of the Indian massacres. Why the continued focus on white men then?


Feminists will scream that white men control the workplace, thereby causing a significant pay differential between the sexes (unproven and largely false). Minorities tout white men keeping them from high paying jobs, even when they have similar qualifications and educations. Some of this is true, and as Americans we must continue to push beyond the narrow-minded kaleidoscope of skin color.


But let us get to the real reason the left has chosen white men as the face of evil in our country. The answer is simple if you take a step away from those who live for media sound bites and refuse to think for themselves--money.


White shaming is nothing new in the U.S., but it has become much more prevalent in recent American history. Campaign promises by the previous administration to "spread the wealth" and the passing of the Affordable Care Act required assets to be equitably distributed across all regions and sectors of the American population.


Since whites make up approximately seventy to seventy-five percent of the American population, it's quite easy to understand who is in control of much of the monetary keepings of the country. The shaming of white males is not accidental. If the left could successfully create a surge of anti-whiteness among its most devout loyalists, the ACA, and other tax initiatives would be simple to push through and sustain, at least in their minds.


The problem with this mindset was then presidential nominee Donald J. Trump, whose boisterous attitude and straight-shooting rhetoric promised an end to the social re-engineering project most know as political correctness.


Silencing the majority through shaming, legislation, and liberal judicial rulings has been on the docket of liberals for decades.  The plan isn't and wasn't new, but they had no way of moving the agenda forward until President Obama took office and the left controlled both houses of Congress. Obama was quick to take the side of "the victim" in most white on black police encounters, even when evidence showed the officer(s) were without blame.


The theory was that whites should be ashamed of both their forefather's actions, and the current "plight" of minorities across the nation.  Branding a white male a racist became cliché over eight years, without thought nor care whether the accusation was right. If the shaming were significant, the left surmised, the money would flow much easier. Guilt, in their thought process, would force white males to open their proverbial wallets to ease the burden of the oppressed.


The problem with this line of thought, however, was that people (white, black, Hispanic, male, female, LGBTQ, etc.) began waking up to what was going on. Three times in President Obama's tenure did he cede large numbers of Congressional and gubernatorial seats.  The largest influx of republicans taking over House, Senate and local political seats was unprecedented in American politics. The backlash had begun...

Will the Real Liberal Please Stand Up Pt. 7

Racism is real. The sooner we all come to terms with this fact, the sooner we can all move beyond the notion that skin color defines who and what we are. This disorder exists among every race, and in many cases is sub-cultural; that is, many of the same race will harbor ill will toward someone lighter or darker than them. The need to differentiate ourselves from someone or everyone else is a strange human trait.


More concerning to me, however, is the blatant call to eradicate or mitigate the population of one race by another.  As we are all aware, Adolph Hitler perpetuated the nastiest, most disgusting form of racism when he slaughtered millions of innocent Jews in the 1930's and 1940's.  On par with this level of destruction is the systematic elimination of the black race, specifically here in the United States.  Even more concerning is how the left has embraced and softened the verbiage around this form of eugenics in an effort to make it palatable and rational to many.


Like you, I grow weary of the comparisons of fellow Americans to Hitler and the Nazis of WWII infamy. With that said, it is important to understand that eugenics is still quietly at play in our world today.


Without going down the path of politics, even though the intent of this continuing series is to draw a distinction between today's liberal and yesterday's democrat versus conservatives in America, I would like to focus on the history of abortion and what is today referred to as "a woman's right to choose."  Again, I'm not interested in the partisan political rhetoric that usually surrounds the topic (I, for one, do not believe this issue is a political one; rather it is a matter of conscience, or lack thereof), but the history and rationale for its legalization by the founder of Planned Parenthood, Margaret Sanger.


In a letter to Dr. Clarence Gamble, a leader of the eugenics movement, Sanger wrote the following:

“We should hire three or four colored ministers, preferably with social-service backgrounds, and with engaging personalities. The most successful educational approach to the Negro is through a religious appeal. We don’t want the word to go out that we want to exterminate the Negro population. And the minister is the man who can straighten out that idea if it ever occurs to any of their more rebellious members."


Interestingly, blacks make up between twelve and fifteen percent of the population in the United States, but roughly thirty-five percent of aborted babies are black.  Planned Parenthood's clinics are located an astounding seventy-eight percent of the time in black neighborhoods.


How, then, can it be stated that Margaret Sanger supported "a woman's right to choose" when she clearly advocated for the elimination of a race in its entirety?  The most grossly negligent attitude the conservative movement has had is forgoing the notion that abortion was about racial dominance, and more about killing unborn babies.  While the latter is utterly disgusting, in my opinion the systematic and legal means of slowing or eliminating a race must not be ignored.


In conjunction with Sanger's desire to push forward the legalization of abortion is the availability of the birth control pill.  "The pill," as it is more commonly referred to, was designed to keep a woman from being pregnant, but Sanger's desire was to make it readily available to black women, like abortion, to keep the race from propagating.


Sanger's message has obviously been twisted and women in the United States have taken the legalization of abortion in a different direction, mostly, than Planned Parenthood's founder intended. However, the fact that so many abortion clinics are found in predominantly black neighborhoods today should not be shrugged off and ignored.


The question must be asked: Why is the legalization of abortion so dear to a liberal's heart?


Part eight of this continuing series will focus on the shaming of a targeted group of Americans for causes other than those liberals claim.