Creative Control

Miscellaneous Mental Musings of an Emerging Artist

Cloaks lined with lead.


So Dick Cheney’s lesbian daughter Mary conceives a child.

Predictably, Focus on the Family and the usual gangs of OhNoGayPeople organizations decide to issue statements varying from prim tsk-tsks to blunt outrage, along with veiled threats that the next time the GOP is stupid enough to nominate a right-wing ideologue to higher office, then maybe there won’t be as many precious bigots hiding behind the misunderstood message of Christ at the polling stations as there used to be. Nope, instead they’ll stay home and spend that Tuesday talking about God’s all-encompassing love while they use magic markers to misspell their trite anti-gay slogans on 99-cent poster board.

“Love can’t replace a mother and a father,” says Carrie Gordon Earll, implying that single parenthood and couples of the same sex are intrinsically inferior to heterosexual parents; ignoring the constant and terrible stories of standard nuclear families all across the world that have routinely abused their children or worse.

Not too put too fine a point on it, but I wonder if these single-issue simpletons realize that through their history of blindly supporting an administration that has sent thousands of men and women to their deaths in a needless, poorly planned and even more poorly executed war, they have managed to ensure that a significant number of American children will be growing up without their mother or father.

And they’ve also ensured that a number of traditional Iraqi families don’t even exist anymore, except as part of a invisible and inaccurate statistic somewhere on the wall of the Iraqi Ministry of Bloody Chaos.

I want to one day have the power to create a Tangible Form representative of the ugliness, idiocy, and meaningless hatred visited upon civilization by these jackasses. I will craft this item and then I will craft a monumental spoon, the likes of which have never been seen before.

And then I will take the spoon and force-feed the Tangible Form to every last one of them. It will rot their teeth and give them indigestion that no amount of over-the-counter remedy can cure, and when they finally expel it from their bodies I will make them clean it up with paper towels, then hurl the mass of it into the sun.

They will go home with the rank stench of their own consumed inhumanities haunting their nostrils, sour and spicy with the pain of new gunpowder, and every time they feel an urge to enter into judgment on yet another person who fails to fit their narrow view of morality they will double over in memory agony and weep for a God who no longer listens to them.

They will be taken to the emergency rooms and be cared for a staff consisting of the offspring and loved ones of those very people who they condemned. They will be taken very good care of. They will either learn a lesson about compassion or they will learn nothing at all.

Those in the latter group I will clean up with paper towels, then hurl the mass of them into the sun.

Congratulations, Mr. Vice President, on the impending birth of your sixth grandchild. One day you may be called to stand up against that child’s irrational enemies, and I hope for the child’s sake that when that day comes you show as much backbone in his or her defense as you do when you’re committing soldiers and tax dollars to your pet wars, telling Senators to go fuck themselves, and shooting your hunting buddies in the face.

In the meantime, you can go to hell. You can go to hell with these people whose fires you’ve stoked, and you can spend a decade or so doing runway shows in lead-lined cloaks. You can sashay heavily across the Malebolge to endless loops of RuPaul remixes and jabber to each other unconvincingly about how all you ever wanted was to protect and care for “families.”

That might satisfy me. Might.

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This entry was posted on December 7, 2006 by in Action Items, Essay, Fiction, History, Mental Health, Politics, Society.
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