Ahh, debating. The sport of minor royalty and civil servants. A past-time surpassed only by fishing in its participants propensity to stare blankly for ages, indulge in a brief, frenzied flurry of activity, and then get back to the good ol' starin'. Strange, then, that this debate was the scene of some particularly fervent debate. First off, "That abortion is an acceptible medical procedure". Originally, the masses were not pleased: "Oh, no!" they said; "Not another abortion debate!" they said; "Can't we talk about hippies, or goths, or communism?" they said; "All hail Luke, our glorious leader!" they said. But Joe, deciding that enough was enough, rammed the debate down their throats, and so Tim Long stood up to propose, immediately endearing himself to Joe by likening pregnancy to heartburn, and the morning-after pill to indigestion tablets. Never one to shy away from controversy, he continued by making some Sigourney Weaver references, and taking a stand against those poor "right wing conservatives", who can never seem to get a break. Robert followed by suggesting that, on the whole, abortion wasn't really all that bad, in certain circumstances, and Eoghan opposed, claiming that the "blob has rights too". Kevin claimed that we should "cherish the bundle of joy, not stick a needle in it". How eloquent.
Then, more Joe-inspired shenanigans, with the be-chaired one proposing the motion: "That there should be an independant body set up to monitor teachers". Possibly to make sure they weren't stealing chalk. But no - he used it as a vehicle to vent petty gripes concerning teachers, and to shout at Dave. At least he managed to tie his diatribe back into the debate, which is more that can be said for A. Lo., who spent his time as opposing speaker wittering on about his rights to make points of information. Emmet tried to rouse us with stories of go-karting, but it was too late. We were already asleep. At least we were until the meeting broke up and the Twirl came out. I've never seen 1st-years move so fast. Even when fleeing from cootie-ridden girls.
He who dances with the wolves had better not smell like the chicken.
