Yet it is the Abortion question, that scares off otherwise supportive people, who would benefit from states asseting their tenth ammendment rights, on behalf of thier citizens.
And as distasteful as bringing up this old chesnut/gordian knot on the forum here, I'll have to give my two cent's worth, even in the face of igniting the blinding back and forth yet again.
Imagine those on the pro-life, and pro-choice sides, staking postions on the top and bottom (or left-and-right, maybe) broad side of a infinitely long two-edged TRANSPARENT GLASS SWORD floating in space, walking back and forth endlessly, from tip to handle, looking for that magic spot to painlessly traverse over that sword's deadly razor-sharp edges, to the other side, to make their attack, kill their enemy, and finally claim that coveted prize: eternal control over the woman, and her vagina, and what comes out of it, and their own destiny filled with god-like power, through it.
Each side, being able to see the other through that transparent glass sword, hurls taunts and catcalls at the other, daring them to jump over and fight, secretly hoping that those who will, catch the razor-sharp edges and meet their doom, so that there will be less effort exerted for victory when the BIG BATTLE someday commences.
On the rough hewn handle, and at the butt end of this two edged glass sword in space, is all the pregnant women of the world, walking aimlessly, round and round, on thier tippy-toes, holding their swollen bellies, with pained looks on thier faces, nervously awaitng the outcome, and their ubiqutous fates, hoping, for the best outcome for themselves, yet, solemny resigning themselves to the worst, because they believe they will never be in control of the war, nor of thier collective fate.
Yet neither the pregnant women on the rough-hewn handle, nor the male and female combatants on the either side of the glass sword, realize, that they are not in control of the sword as it travels in space to a unknown, perhaps final, destination.
And, as this sword travels in space, it spins, on its long axis, faster, than a speeding bullet whizzing through air. For some on this sword, it is gravity keeping them grounded to the suface of the glass, cheerfully continuing thier unyeilding campaign of taunts for the other side to jump and hopefully die, blisssfully unaware that others, find themselves flung off to their unknown doom.
Even more mind-boggling that this trasnparent glass sword is so straight and true, that where the thickest part of the middle of this blade should be, is only the thickness of a baby's one fine hair.
and the breadth of this blade is wider than all the lengths of oceans put together. No one can truly see where the edge is, determining comfort zone for safety. Sure, many have claimed to know, even sold others "knowlegde", but none can REALLY be sure.
Guessing games and wild wagers have become the passtime for not only the combatants, when they sometimes tire of the never-ending taunts, but for the pregnant handle-walkers, to keep themsleves in better spirits as they walk aimlessly round the round handle, whenever their arms tire of holding their swollen bellies, and keeping thier feet on thier tippie-toes, and grow bored of keeping thier solemn vigils of bleak resignation.
Some of the combatants and handle walkers have become so dispondent of the never ending wait for the BIG BATTLE, that they have given up all hope, and try to find that unseen edge, to maybe fall on it themselves, bringing welcome relief through doom, hoping, that will shame all into stopping the unending torment each side brutally wages on the other, and remembering those who wanted relief from the unyielding drumbeats of the coming BIG BATTLE. Failing at finding that hoped-for edge, some have made edges of their own, or even allowed the spinning of the sword to fling them off. Yet the efforts of those who left, appear in vain, for the insufferable taunts both sides inflict on the other, continue, blissfully unabated.
All the while, this sword continues cutting through space, speeding faster than light itself, unswerving, by the bustlings of the millions and millions upon it, toward a destination none dare wonder, to an end none dare dream.
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