God Hates Fags. Cigars Too.
Of course He does! Cigarettes are awful– just awful, an abomination of the temple that is the human body. They smell horrible, they fill your lungs with black gooey gunk, and they’re darned expensive.
So God bless Reverend Fred Phelps and those warm, wonderful souls from Westboro Baptist Church who are coming to my town this weekend to bring this scourge to the public’s attention by picketing the funeral of raped, murdered Marine Maria Lauterbach and her unborn baby.
Cigarettes kill! Of course, in this case, so do vile, subhuman rapists, but that’s not the point. The point is that these loving angels of mercy are descending upon my state to spread God’s anti-smoking message to the masses.
“Cigarettes” is an awfully long word to put on a picket sign, so in their ingenuity, Phelps’ followers reverted to the shorter, slangier “fag.” But we know what they mean.
Marlboros, mister. Camel Lights, Kools and Winstons.
Oh, wait– what’s that? You mean they’re not talking about cigarettes? Oh. Why that’s a horse of a different color.
Never mind.
But this has me thinking. Obviously the folks from the Westboro Baptist Church and their
fearless, beneficent leader really know God, and have a far deeper understanding of His likes and dislikes than the rest of us heathens. They’re obviously on pretty chummy terms with Him if He’s throwing around slangy words like “fag” with them. Some of the Westboronites are even comfortable enough with him to talk about “that certain part” of His anatomy (as they say on the ExtenZe commercials). You know, those “God’s Rod” signs that they hold up. Wow. What a chuckle they must get from that one.
I’m fascinated that they know His mind and attribute hate, that most human of emotions, to the Big Guy. They’re holy hipsters on the inside track, and He’s told them personally that not only does He hate, but that He has a particular, burning hatred for the military in general and homosexuals in particular. Not just any homosexuals. American homosexuals. And wow, no wonder. What a powerful group they are. Who’s responsible for 9/11? Fags! Who raped and killed Maria Lauterbach? Fags (Cesar Laurean is going to be relieved about that)! Who caused Wesley Snipes’ not to pay his taxes? Why is my car dirty? You guessed it.
Quite frankly, I’m a little relieved to know that everything that’s wrong in my life and in the world at large can be tied into an insane little bow and pinned on one particular group. It simplifies my life. It also takes the heat off of Blacks, Jews, and the Postal Service.
So I wonder. Who or what else does God hate besides gay people? I’m going to hazard some guesses.
1: Instant potatoes: From what I understand, most of these are made with some sort of plastic. If God had wanted us to eat plastic, the apples in the Garden of Eden would have come from Hobby Lobby.
2: Starship: Not the Enterprise. The band. Okay, maybe He doesn’t hate them as individuals, but he’ll never forgive them for any of their songs.
3: The inventor of Spandex, and most people who wear it: Except for David Lee Roth, thirty years ago.
4: Pauly Shore: Maybe God liked him at some point, but then He just started becoming annoyed. Once He watched “Pauly Shore is Dead,” it grew into full blown hatred.
5: Young, beautiful, sexy women with perfect skin and flawless features: Oh wait, that’s me who hates them. Sorry.
6: Camel crickets: These are those pale, hideously ugly and scary insects that turn my
stomach when I see them. I think God hates them because they represent one of his few mistakes– when he was making them, he took them out of the oven too soon.
7: Camel toes. Just a hunch.
8: The people who are stealing rocks and slowly disassembling the beautiful wall that Tom built, stone by stone: These are the same dumbasses that stole our downspout, and He hates them for that too.
9: Cuba Gooding, Jr.: I don’t know why God hates him, but He gave him an Oscar, then reduced him to kissing up to Michael Jordan in underwear commercials. That’s cold, God.
10: Donald Trump’s hair: Oh, and his big, fat mouth.
Can you think of any others? I want to start picketing funerals, and I need some ideas.
Poetry Flashback
I have to work on writing today, but here’s an old poem. I’m tempted to apologize and give a bunch of disclaimers for how bad it is, but I think it’ll be a good exercise to just shut up and let it be.
Roach
He’s sitting on the top step of my new apartment
Cinnamon body buffed to a hard wax shine
a glossy evil automaton from hell.
“How many friends did you bring?” I say
but his jaws, hinged shut like car doors
reveal nothing.
I know they’re here though, looking down like spying gymnasts
hanging from lights and cabinet doors.
I’ll turn my back and out they’ll scramble,
swaggering cool not panicky
-the Watergate burglars of bugs.
I’m obsessed, they must be everywhere
those hard-shelled little bastards
Hiding smug and crafty, like cans of Campbell’s
Cream of Cockroach soup,
brown as dates with moving parts
subletting the catacombs of my gleaming pantry
Antennas ess like radar waves,
monitor my family’s every move
leering down and chortling evil insect laughter
at my children, innocently watching TV.
At eight and thirteen, they’re believers
in the healing powers of Raid and roach motels,
while I, like an old woman cheated in a telephone scam
have been burned, though I’ve learned
a few ways to outsmart an insect.
Come ride around my boric acid beltway
Feast upon cucumber peels
scattered at this baseboard roadside cafe.
Frolic and run, lick your legs and die
and lull me into a false sense of disease-free property rental
until at night, in the comfort of my bed,
I’ll sense your seedy gaze, hear you plotting your revenge,
scratching Morse code messages along my walls.
