You know, it wasn't until the presidential debates that I discovered how utterly stupid is our President Bush. Before then, I was always the guy who argued in defense of the president's intelligence. Not that I was a Bush fan or anything, I just believed it to be in sophomoric form to call someone stupid because his opinions are different than yours, and that you simply cannot be an idiot and be the president of the United States at the same time.
Then came the debates and, oh man, did Bush look like someone who just fell off the turkey truck. Especially after the third debate, when he was asked if homosexuality was a choice and he responded, “I don't know.”
Holy mother of wow.
How could a thinking human being in the 21st freaking century still believe that homosexuals choose to be gay? Homosexuals didn't choose to be gay any more than the president chose to be an idiot. I can see not knowing if it's genetic, or upbringing, or a combination of both that makes a person queer. But to believe that homosexuals just one day up and decided to go gay is a sure sign that you are some kind of idiot turd.
“Hey, Pat, I'll think I'll go gay today.”
“Really, Jim, why's that?”
“There's just something about the gay lifestyle that really attracts me. You know, rejection, estrangement, incessantly pounding techno music, loneliness, despair-it's like a dream life.”
As for whether homosexuality is in the upbringing or genetics, it just so happens I know the answer: It's genetics! Sure, most scientists refute this. They say there is no evidence to support the existence of a “gay gene.” But I know for a fact that gay genes exist. I know because I have one.
Granted, it's dormant mostly. My gay gene usually just lounges on a micro-nuclear couch, sipping on rusty nails and watching the fashion channel. But then, for some inexplicable reason, it starts acting all gay and shit.
It's embarrassing to admit. I prefer to think of myself as a manly man: I watch sports and drink beer. I dress slovenly. I bellow more often than I speak. I have an interminable compulsion to control the remote control. I say things like, “Hand me that hammer, Barney.” I don't go shopping unless absolutely necessary. I sit with my hands behind my head and my legs a mile wide. I'm basically just minding my own business, being all heterosexual and shit, but sometimes, suddenly, inexplicably, I'll go gay.
For instance, last week my wrist went limp. Just like that, for no apparent reason. I was walking down Newport Avenue, being all straight, when I noticed my hand was limply dangling on the end of my arm like it had fainted or something. I just stopped in mid-stride and looked down at the thing.
What the hell is this? I thought. I've got a limp wrist? How can that be?
A pox on you, gay gene!
One time I found myself literally jumping for joy. How queer is that? Some gal at the bar gave me a $20 tip and I started jumping up and down and clapping like I just won the Oscar for Best Actress. I did that for, like, five seconds before I stopped cold and thought, Waiiiit a minute? Real Men do not jump up and down for joy.
May the DNA of a million lepers infest your chromosome string, o' despicable gene of much gayness!
The only time men are allowed to jump for joy is when their favorite sports team wins a championship. And not the gay-ass way the Red Sox jumped for joy after (wretched blasphemy) beating the Yanks. It has to be the masculine type of jumping for joy, with lots of high-fiving, and shoving and elbowing each other.
More evidence that a gay gene exists is in my taste in music. While I adore manly man acts like Sabbath, Sinatra, Motorhead and Rage, I also love the shit out of some of that queer music like Wham, Cher, Madonna and the “Red Sox Fight Song.” I dig show tunes. I enjoy incessantly pounding techno music. And I think Upstairs at Eric's by Bronski Beat is the second best dance album ever recorded-knowing full well that something really gay must've happened at Eric's, upstairs.
How about this disturbing proof of my lingering homogenetics: sometimes when I'm drinking coffee, my pinky involuntarily extends upward like some elderly Southern dame at tea time. I'll just be innocently tilting the cup into my mouth when-slam-bam thank you Wham!-there it is, a little bitty hand-boner wagging in the wind, a flagellating testament to my latent queernesses.
O' gay gene, must thou torment me?
Thankfully, aside from my gay gene, I also have gay-bashing genes. Whenever my gay gene decides to go cruising, my gay-bashing genes gang up and beat the shit out of it.
That'll teach a gene to be all gay and shit.
Anyway, I will not be voting for Bush come Election Day. He's clearly still living in the Dark Ages. He doesn't know jack spit about the human condition. He sees terrorists as evil and that's the end of the story. He thinks secularists are amoral. He sees homosexuals as dick-crazed hump-devils who threaten our way of life, and anybody with that simplistic of a worldview has no business being the leader of your knitting club, much less the free world.
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