The first time I ever saw a protest was in the sixties when we were piled in the family station wagon headed to see our grandparents. It was a civil rights protest that we passed and it made The Queen Mum really nervous. Dad said they were standing out there to make a point and weren't interested in bothering anybody.
A few years ago, our church organized a walk to join a protest in Kansas City against the Iraq War. I told The Big Daddy that we needed to put our money where our mouth was when it came to this and so the whole family went. He and I might have been more effective protestors had we not both been suffering from A Massive Hangover. As I was walking with a friend, she told me she was suffering from the same affliction, and that church of ours wasted their best intentions on some of their slacker parishioners who thought the prep was to get shit-faced the the night before.
When the Westboro Baptist Church showed up at the kids high school with their "God Hates Fags" posters, every man, woman and child within twenty miles came to that protest to drown them out and send crazy packing.
Last week in New York City, two dozen women protested their right to go topless. One woman said that her dog has six nipples that anybody can see, but if she were to show her two she'd be arrested.
But your dog isn't picking the kids up from school, making a deposit at the bank or digging in the freezer case at the Winn-Dixie for the Green Giant Sweet Kernel Corn that's two for one.
My years of living make me believe that if we all gave peace a chance we'd be better off. And while I appreciate the right to protest and wouldn't hesitate to do it if I believed in the cause, I'd rather passer-bys just be looking at my sign.