Do It In Private & Wash Your Hands Afterwards

do it in private & wash your hands afterwards

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The Gay Weather Forecast

God caused Hurricane Katrina to wipe out New Orleans because it had a gay pride parade the week before and was filled with sexual sin.  (Pastor John Haggee of San Antonio, Texas)

If anybody looks at the news and has just seen what’s been happening recently with the floods, the fires, the tornadoes — God is shaking.  (Pam Olsen, founder of the Florida Prayer Network)

The massive tornadoes that hit Illinois after the passing of the same-sex “marriage” bill has stimulated many people to reflection. In it, some see God’s chastisement; others see it as yet one more merciful warning from Providence.  (Robert Ritchie, Executive Director of America Needs Fatima, a project of the American Society for the Defense of Tradition, Family, and Property)


JIM: …where our own Middle School Tigers scored the winning goal.

JANE: They move on to regional playoffs now, right, Jim?

JIM: You bet they do, Jane. Rip and roar, Tigers!

JANE: Grrrrr!

JIM: Ha ha ha!

JANE: Ha ha ha!

JIM: Or does she mean “brrrr”?

JANE: Ha ha ha! Bob Johnson has the weather.

BOB: Thanks, Jane. We’re looking at continued snowfall tomorrow, probably about 13 inches.

JANE: Hmm.  I’m a woman, Bob, so I can definitely say — that’s more like six inches.

BOB: And temperatures below freezing, with a wind-chill factor well into negative numbers.

JIM: Brrrr — that is cold.

BOB: Let’s take a look at the Channel 4 Gay Weather Forecast.  What we’re seeing is a “polar vortex” — a low-pressure system moving into clusters of spiraling homosexuals at the North Pole.

JANE: What causes them to spin like that, Bob?

BOB: Good question, Jane, and fun for the kids at home. The gays spin clockwise in the Southern Hemisphere, and counter-clockwise in our hemisphere, due to a combination of the Earth’s rotation, its tilt on its axis, and that new Beyoncé album.

JANE: That Beyoncé joint is fierce, Bob.

BOB: It’s ferocious.

JIM: Eskimos are gay. Where’s that picture of the one on Alaska Airlines? On the tail.


JANE: Bob, these are unseasonably, almost unbelievably low temperatures.  Snowdrifts as high as an SUV, ice storms —

BOB: That’s the devastating toll that gay marriage has taken on the atmosphere, Jane. Gay engagement parties, gay weddings, gay wedding receptions — they send vast, dense clouds of celebration skyward, where they’re trapped by the ozone layer.  

JANE: Isn’t that what’s called the Green House Music Effect?

BOB: Right you are, Jane.  That rapidly syncopating DONK-donk-donk-de-DONK-donk-donk-de-DONK beat presses back on the ocean’s surface, displacing the water and causing seas to rise.

JANE: The ocean is rising?

JIM: The ocean is gay.  That’s why it’s not affected by oil slicks.  It loves oil slicks.  That’s why Florida looks like a penis.  And Italy looks like a penis.

JANE: Italy looks like a boot.

JIM: It’s a pretty big penis.


BOB: On the national weather map, this cold snap hasn’t affected California at all.  The Golden State has built up an immunity to anti-gay weather with tons of actual gay people.

JANE: So God’s using homophobic weather to punish gays in places where there are, in fact, not a lot of gays. That doesn’t make sense.

BOB: It’s science, Jane. It doesn’t have to make sense.

JIM: New York’s got a lot of gays, and it’s blizzard after blizzard there.  How’s New York different from California?

BOB: New Yorkers eat carbohydrates. Big, round carbs slathered in tomato sauce and pepperoni.  Twisted, salty carbs loaded with mustard.  In New York, running isn’t a “wellness activity.” It’s what you do to get away from the police.

JANE: California gets warm weather, but New Yorkers eat whatever they want. Why’s that?

BOB: New York got first pick.  Back to you, Jane.

I wrote and produced a short film called “Out Smart.” Watch it at

Filed under lgbt gay bi lesbian homosexual homosexuality pflag glaad come out coming out new york los angeles beyonce out smart out smart movie outsmartmovie climate change global warming midterms the midterms midterm elections advocate the advocate

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The Cruelest Love Song Ever: “Sister Golden Hair”

If you’ve ever zoomed down a California highway and tuned your Pandora or SiriusXM or the iPod that your Uncle Keith sold you, the one who now lives on a commune called the Vegan Scrumptious Dirt ‘n’ Bits o’ Gravel Farm — if you switched one of them to “Classic Rock,” you might have heard the band America.

Well, America is so American, their labeling is total bullshit.  They’re British.  They also contain trace amounts of riboflavin.  

And they recorded the worst love song ever by a man who has no idea what love is, or even simple human decency, for that matter.

It’s called “Sister Golden Hair.”

If you guessed “Sister Golden Hair” is really about nuns, you’re wrong.  Although that might be better.  Nuns understand that they’re never going to marry the man they love, but in their case it’s Jesus, so that’s a pretty unrealistic expectation off the bat. 

No, “Sister Golden Hair” is a bouncy, wind-in-your-hair tune about a man who has JUST DUMPED HIS BRIDE AT THEIR WEDDING.

Well, I tried to make it Sunday,
But I got so damn depressed.

Starts off not so bad.  They had weekend plans and he had to bail.  That happens.  Except he didn’t call.  Didn’t leave a message.

Not cool, bro.  An apology is in order.  You’re just telling her you didn’t show up.  She already knows that, because you didn’t show up.

Depressed is a big clue here — they didn’t have Paxil, Prozac, Zoloft, or even affordable cocaine in 1975 when this song was recorded.  We want to extend this guy some sympathy, especially when he insists he’s “damn” depressed, because maybe his illness makes him angry and self-loathing, and in 1975 there weren’t as many comedy clubs, either.  

So I set my sights on Monday,
And I got myself undressed.

Sounds like he fell asleep for 24 hours, then woke up and remembered to take off his clothes.  Definitely a symptom of clinical depression.  Or a lot of heavy drinking.  

But these are the opening chords of a melancholic love song, so we’re giving the guy the benefit of the doubt.

I ain’t ready for the altar —

WHAAAAAAT????  What did you just say?  

"The altar" is a clear reference to a wedding.  He wasn’t, say, being sacrificed.  You can’t R.S.V.P. "regrets" to that kind of thing and not expect somebody to come and escort you to the festivities.

And he’s clearly the groom in this scenario.  He’s not a friend or family member in attendance.  You don’t sit anywhere close to the altar.  He’s not a groomsman, either, or he would’ve said, “I ain’t ready near the altar” or “I ain’t ready by the altar” or “I ain’t ready for the altar, like, just off to the side.”

This wasn’t some hippie flowers-in-your-hair gathering in a field of clover, either.  This was a Sunday church wedding that required wardrobe.  

We’re talking invitations, floral arrangements, a bridal gown, maybe out-of-town travel on the part of guests, a cake, a DJ or band of some kind.  All that takes planning.  It takes LOGISTICS.  Ever heard of the Invasion of Normandy?  AMATEURS.  They didn’t have catering.

But hey — our guy ain’t ready for all that.  He just decided.  And didn’t bother to tell anybody.  Just pulled the plug and took a nap.

(And “I ain’t ready”?  That’s a little casual for a jilting.  He’s already screwed up so stupendously, so agonizingly, but “I’m not ready” would go a long way.)

But I do agree there’s times
When a woman sure can be a friend of mine.

Fantastic!  Your once-future-husband, who just embarrassed you in front of dozens or even hundreds of your friends and relatives — not to mention blowing twenty grand or more of your dad’s money on a party, that soon after it started, nobody wanted to be at — well, that fine gentleman WANTS TO BE FRIENDS.  What plucky gal wouldn’t just LEAP at that chance?

Well, I keep on thinkin’ ‘bout you,
Sister Golden Hair Surprise.

Okay, wait a second.  

We met, we dated, we fell in love, you asked me to marry you, we planned a big church wedding, we talked about it, we looked forward to it with giddy anticipation — we even had a goddamn REHEARSAL the night before, for Christ’s sake — and then you took a big wet shit over everything.  

You didn’t even leave a note.

I was left standing there alone with these stupid flowers in this ridiculous, bulky, dumbass dress I’ll never wear again — I can’t return because I had it altered — and I won’t hand down to my daughter, even if I eventually have a daughter, because that would be the sickest curse laid on a kid since Rosemary’s Baby

Then you say you want to be friends.

Now you say you keep thinking about me.

"Damn depressed," you bet.  That’s me.  For not seeing what a bipolar asshole you are.

And I just can’t live without you.
Can’t you see it in my eyes?

If I see your eyes again, I’ll stab them with the knife we were going to use to cut our wedding cake, you SOULLESS BASTARD.

I’ve been one poor correspondent,
And I’ve been too, too hard to find.

This just keeps getting worse.  We’ve been “correspondents”?  Like, writing letters?  Why have you been so far away?  Were you traveling for work?  Were you in the military?  Is that why you were too, too hard to find?  Your unit kept moving?  Were you in Vietnam?  Were you in the shit?  Were you in the cool, dark, moody Vietnam like Apocalypse Now or the gray, rainy, muddy Vietnam like Platoon?  

Why didn’t I see this?  Why am I so stupid?  Is this really my fault?  Am I an unlovable monster?  Should I change?  Dear God, can I change?  

Now I’ll have to go read and re-read your love letters all over again, except I can’t, because I fucking burned them.

Will you meet me in the middle?
Will you meet me in the air?

"Meet you in the middle," right.  You already said you want to be friends.  Between "friend" and "wife" is — let me guess — "fuckpunch."  Am I close?

You expect me to be able to get naked with you after all this?  Are you insane?  (Well, clearly.)  But are you fucking stupid?

"Meet you in the air"?  Are you really trying poetry right now?  Like we’re, I don’t know, fairies or something?  ("Peter Pan" fairies, not "gay" fairies.  I have to mention that because of Ramon, my florist.  And Daniel, my wedding planner.  And at least three of the waiters, I’m sure of it.)

Will you love me just a little,
Just enough to show you care?

Is that what you think love is?  Some measurable quantity of emotion that you can dispense with an eye-dropper?  One drop, you care.  Two drops, we’re fucking on that hideous couch you spilled a lava lamp on in your studio apartment.  Three drops, we’re married and living happily ever after in a four-bedroom in Encino.

No, I don’t love that way.  I love all the way or nothing.  I love with my whole heart and soul, the fiber of my being, the very essence of my existence.  Except for that one time in college with my sociology professor.  I was experimental then.

Well, I tried to fake it.
I don’t mind sayin’
I just can’t make it.

Oh, fuck off. Seriously.

Filed under america sister golden hair love song love songs romance love humor music musical songs

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Dear Employer: A List of Religious Diseases and Disorders Covered Under the “Hobby Lobby” Case

Dear Employer:

I could not help noticing that you seemed overjoyed by the Supreme Court’s ruling in the “Hobby Lobby” case.  Your strict devotion to your faith cannot let you, in good conscience, pay into a general insurance fund that covers treatments you find objectionable on religious grounds, such as birth control.

I, too, share your belief in Bible-based medicine.  I have supplied a list of ailments that should be covered under our group policy.  I will cc: Human Resources, too, so that I will not be penalized for days absent from work.


Jane Weisman

cc: Human Resources

Sodomandgomorrhea — One or more of my limbs has been become a pillar of salt.  Best stay home and lick my wounds.

Roar-iasis — Like Daniel in the lions’ den, my flesh has become unpalatable to jungle carnivores.  This can’t be good.

Irritable Vowel Syndrome — A sore throat from speaking in tongues.  My doctor recommends warm broths, a menthol chest rub, and two consonants every four hours.

Pinot Grigioma — My internal organs have reacted violently to an aperitif I enjoyed last evening.  All the water in my body has transmuted into wine.  Talk about a hangover!  Seriously — with zero water I should be dead already.      

Manna-rexia — Some sort of magical foodstuff fell from the sky, but I have been unable to eat any.  A Vitamin M deficiency can lead to a loss of object permanence, incl. not realizing that Grandpa can’t actually “get” my nose, as well as hysterical blindness from playing peekaboo.  

Sinfluenza — I inherited the original sin of Eve from the Garden of Eden.  You’d think there be some sort of pre-natal test for that.  According to my gynecologist, my “sorrow” has been “greatly multiplied.”  In non-medical terms, “sorrow” means “my period,” and “greatly multiplied” means “cramps so bad I could crush cars in there.”  Not moving off the couch today, sorry.

Ulcerative Lazaritis — I died in my sleep, apparently, but the good news is that I have been resurrected.  Being brought back to life has not eased my rigor mortis, though, and has resulted in severe chafing.  I’ve also got gas like you wouldn’t believe.

Filed under Hobby Lobby comedy comedians scotus supreme court medicine birth control birth control pills humor religion god christian bible

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When Does a Bed Become a Deathbed?

Media report that Fred Phelps, founder of the Westboro Baptist Church, best-known for picketing the funerals of U.S. veterans and the ubiquitous “God Hates Fags” placards, is “on his deathbed.” (March 16, 2014)

When does a bed become a deathbed?

A bed becomes a sickbed when you’re sick. A bed become a deathbed before you’re dead.

Like: “Ned went to see Ted on his deathbed.”

No point going to visit someone when they’re dead.  Although you would get a firm handshake.

Plus you wouldn’t want to keep a dead Ted in his deathbed long enough for Ned to make the trip.  

Once that smell hit him — holy crap.  Ned would turn around and get out of there.

Bed of the Ball

I guess every bed is a potential deathbed.  If you, y’know, die in it.

Once I was living with this girl, we were pretty serious — she had an amazing deathbed.  

Antique, ornate headboard, footboard — what might’ve been, one day, our deathbed.

Then she goes to IKEA and buys a new deathbed.  This lime-green, post-modern, semi-oval — it looked like a partially chewed gumdrop.

So I broke up with her.

No way I wanted that to be my deathbed.

Get the Bed Out

I suppose you always buy a new deathbed.

Can’t sell an used one.  I don’t want Ted’s deathbed.  I’d never fall asleep again.  I mean — it’s a deathbed NOW.

If you can’t get cumstains out of a mattress, I’ll bet death settles right down in there.

You wouldn’t even need one of those freaky purple flashlights on CSI to imagine yourself, dozing ever so lightly, on a great big skull-and-crossbones.

Caught ‘im Bed to Rights

I saw a guy in the news shotgunned on a waterbed.

Poor dude didn’t even get a deathbed.

He died in a shallow puddle on a deflated rubber… thing.

Hey — no water, no bed.  I don’t make the rules.

I’m going to buy some bunk beds.  I never heard of a death bunk bed.  I’d probably live forever.

Filed under deathbed humor humour comedy fred phelps wbc westboro westboro baptist church gay lgbt lgbti lgbtq gay marriage same sex marriage funny

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Happy Holidays! And Stop Saying “Happy Holidays!”

Happy Holidays! And Stop Saying “Happy Holidays!”

Stop saying “Happy Holidays!”  Just stop.

It’s that time of year again — you know, the one full of polite euphemisms for that time of year.

Happy Holidays!

Season’s Greetings!

ATTN PARENTS: Schools are closed for the winter holidays.

There are more euphemisms for this time of year than That Time of the Month.

So don’t say “Happy Holidays!”  If you want to wish me well, say what’s on your mind.

Be specific in your well-wishing. Say “Merry Christmas!” or “Happy Hanukkah!” or “Snoop Kwaanza, yo!”

Merry Christmas!

If you celebrate Christmas, no matter how lapsed or wobbly in your faith in a magic baby whose belly button cast a star in the East like the Bat Signal, say “Merry Christmas!”

It’s your wish, after all, even if it’s for your Jewish or Wiccan or pagan or atheist or Satanist or even Methodist friend.

Express your comfort and joy with “Merry Christmas!”  And for 25 days a year, give or take, the rest of us all agree to forget about the Crusades, the Inquisition, the Holocaust, and Kirk Cameron’s carefully considered opinions about anything.

SHOPPING TIP! Even a small list of atrocities committed in the name of Christianity over 2,000 years makes a great stocking stuffer!

Happy Hanukkah!

If you have a Jewish friend — and who doesn’t these days, they’re everywhere, it’s like they can roam free without having to show their papers or something — you can say “Happy Hanukkah!” even though you personally celebrate Christmas.

Respect your friend’s culture with a faith-appropriate wish.  Jesus will not send you screaming straight to Hell. Like Mel Gibson, Lars von Trier, or John Paul Galliano, you can always say it was just a joke.

Jesus would be cool with that.  Any guy who thought he could kick the money changers out of religion has got to have a sense of humor!

If you celebrate Hanukkah, celebrate Hanukkah!  Say “Happy Hanukkah!”  Don’t say “We OBSERVE Hanukkah” like it’s a mental patient on suicide watch.

Light those candles!  Spin those dreidels!  Plant a tree in Israel!  I say let’s combine Arbor Day with Hanukkah and call it Harmonica!

Happy Ramadan! (Not Now, Though)

If you have a Muslim friend, report him or her to the Department of Homeland Security immediately.  202-282-8000 or  Do it now.

I’m kidding. You can wait till the end of this blog post.

Happy Nothing!

If you want to wish your friend well, but you are unsure of his or her religious affiliation, and you have none yourself, try this: “Hello!”  Or “Goodbye!”

That’s it.  That’s the whole menu.  Thank you for thinking of me enough to draw breath and exhale.

I don’t want your bogus “Happy Holidays!” because you’re worried that the law firm of Rosenberg, Rosenstein, and Rosenwicz will take you to court for a hate crime.

Season’s Greetings!

And keep “Season’s Greetings!” to yourself, too.  Winter is a season, but winter can’t greet me, because a season can’t talk.

If it could talk, winter would complain about how hot it is because of climate change.  And that would be — let’s face it — a little Jewish.

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No Props for Prop 8: California’s Gay Marriage Ban

Written on the occasion of the passage of Prop 8 banning same-sex marriage in California, at the same time voters approved a sci-fi train from Los Angeles to San Francisco:

Seems Californians are a clique of middle-school cockteases.  They voted to eliminate same-sex marriage, which wasn’t costing them a dime, but supported a $20 billion bullet train straight to ASS!-a-Roni!, the San Francisco treat! 

So, gay men, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgenders — we disapprove of your profligate ways, but you can’t settle down and get married. 

Have all the cock-waving, labia-quivering, hot-butt-nekkid sex you want — but do it out of town. 

Not only will we forego the disposable income you’d prefer to drop into your local economy, but we’ll fork out the dough to build a monorail to Disney’s Gay Adventure.

A nation is a human thing.  It does what we do for our reasons.  Surely, if we’re civilized, we can put away the knives.  We can make peace.  We have it in our hands.

Henry II in The Lion in Winter, screenplay by James Goldman, based on his play

I love gay marriage.  LOVE it. 

I want to see a boom in florists, caterers, dressmakers, tailors, crappy tribute bands who play all the gay techno-synth-shit songs from the 80s, pastry chefs, honeymoon vacations, and scratch-n-sniff vajayjay party favors. 

I want to see Muffy Van Whosiwhatsit’s Big Daddy in Orange County spend ginormous cash to out-flamboyant a gay man’s wedding and reception.  I mean — there ain’t enough taffeta in the world, jack. 

I want revenues for rentals of lesbian chapels in Home Depot, Lowe’s, and other locations where fine power tools are sold. 

I want gay marriages, gay divorces, gay pre-nups, gay adoption, gay property disputes — briarpatches of new law that can unspool for fuckin’ years

Clothes on the lawn, furniture tossed out of windows, your $5,000 sybian machine dropped off at the local Rite Aid so kids out front can pay a quarter to ride the funny pony — a gay couple can display more outrage and you-never-really-loved-ME! passion, breaking up after being together only 10 hours, than a straight couple after 10 years. 

Give me vast frontiers of legal flimflammery so that generations of lawyers now in law school will have someone else to fuck in the ass instead of me.

California’s black and Latino voters provided key support in favor of the state’s same-sex marriage ban. Seven in 10 (70%) black voters backed Proposition 8, along with more half of Latino voters, while whites were split.

Of the seven in 10 (70%) voters who described themselves as Christian, two-thirds (66%) backed the initiative. Married voters, along with voters with children, strongly supported Prop 8. Unmarried voters were heavily opposed.

figures from the Associated Press

Many black people — as well as other minorities that benefited from the civil rights movement of the 60s, including but not limited to, y’know, all of ‘em — don’t see gay marriage as similar social justice. 

You choose to be gay, they say.  You don’t choose to be black or Mexican or Chinese.

What they mean, I think, is that gay people choose to fuck.

You can be gay all you want, but I don’t want to see it and keep it to yourself.  Love the sinner, hate the sin, goo goo goo joob.

We’ll tolerate your identity, but don’t express that identity.

If we applied this principle to minorities across the board, we’d have a nation of citizens covered up in Haz-Mat suits so natural-born white folks wouldn’t have to see or hear ‘em.

(And while we’re at it, I hate the word tolerate here.  I tolerate a hangnail till I can cut it off.  I tolerate some dimwit couple babbling at the movies because they’re talking so fast, they’re clearly off their meds and might stab me with a knitting needle.  These things have a tangible effect on my immediate quality of life.  If you don’t want to see a gay couple kissing, look away.  If you don’t want to see two hot chicks wrestling in a wading pool of tapioca, then get the hell out of my house on Dessert Night.)

Why do they hate us so much? my friend asks.  And I tell him, When you try to give an irrational question a rational answer, you wind up in the straitjacket with them.

Oh, the God question, right.

God is an infinite presence of infinite knowledge and infinite power, but He really cares about your asshole and what goes into it.  It takes up hours of His day.

  • 6 a.m. — Breakfast with the Seraphim
  • 6:30 a.m. — Thinkin’ ‘Bout Some Assholes
  • 7:30 a.m. — I Really Like Stars, I Made So Many of ‘Em, So Why, If I Don’t Like Assholes, Did I Make ‘Em Shaped like This (  *  )?
  • 9:30 a.m. — Damn You, Assholes!

A fairy-tale figure in the sky shouldn’t influence what we deem to be human rights or public policy. 

The U.S. Department of Agriculture, after all, does not set its course by Jack and the Beanstalk.

Filed under gay gay marriage same sex marriage homosexual lgbt doma scotus supreme court prop 8 proposition 8 california religion god christian christians christianity

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Why Gay Marriage Isn’t Real Marriage: from the California Supreme Court

Recently the Obama Administration urged the Supreme Court to strike down California’s ban on same-sex marriage as unconstitutional.

The ban emerged as a result of “Proposition 8,” or Prop 8, when put to a statewide popular vote.

The Department of Justice hopes that the Supreme Court will grant “full faith and credit” to same-sex marriages and thus forbid state-by-state banning of them.

What follows are excerpts from the California State Supreme Court’s ruling upholding the ban:

On Proposition 8 as a constitutional amendment:

It is not our role to pass judgment on the wisdom or relative merit of the current provisions of the California Constitution governing the means by which our state Constitution may be altered. We mean — Jesus, Kindergarten Cop was our goddamn governor, fer Chrissakes. We don’t know what the fuck’s going on up in this motherfucker.

Still, it is the finding of this Court, as a statement of fact rather than a legal position, that gay marriage isn’t real marriage, to wit:
•    If you’re a dude, you still get blowjobs.
•    If you’re a chick, you still get your pussy licked. You continue to go out on dates. To Home Depot and Plumbers Warehouse, but still.
•    Lesbian couples never fight about leaving the toilet seat up.
•    You have a shot at your partner’s being in the closet and not having to deal with his or her in-laws.
•    Gay sex cannot produce children “by accident,” which is responsible for 98% of all marriages. (The other 2% result because she starts crying and a guy will do anything to put a sock in that shit.)

On a constitutional “amendment” vs. constitutional “revision”

Furthermore, the Court holds that Proposition 8 constitutes a constitutional ‘amendment’ rather than a constitutional ‘revision.’

What’s the difference between an ‘amendment’ and a ‘revision’? Do we have to spell it out for you?

Oh. We do have to spell it out for you.


Well, one means ‘change.’

The other means, ah, ‘change.’

And, well — oh, fuck it, you bunch of word nerds.

On Proposition 8 violating the equal protection clause:

Describing the effect of Proposition 8 as narrow and limited fails to acknowledge the significance of the discrimination it requires.

On the other hand, ‘narrow’ and ‘limited’ are pretty good adjectives to describe the penises and vaginas, respectively, of the bonnet-wearing, hissy-throwing, sexually repressed Christian dingbats backing this measure in the first place.

Proposition 8 and all similar initiative measures seek to deny a fundamental right to a group that has historically been subject to discrimination on the basis of a suspect classification.

This violates the essence of the equal protection clause of the California Constitution and fundamentally alters its scope and meaning. Like — what happened to sticking it to Mexicans? This state was built on sticking it to Mexicans. And to the Chinese. Now there’s a Panda Express every 10 feet and a taco stand every five.

On complaints that it is too easy to amend the California Constitution:

Petitioners’ complaint is that it is just too easy to amend the California Constitution through the initiative process.

But it is not a proper function of this court to curtail that process; we are constitutionally bound to uphold it.

On the other hand, the scratch-n-sniff ballots have to go.

Likewise the Pin-the-Plug-in-the-Badonkadonk Game.

On rights retained by same-sex couples under Proposition 8:

Although Proposition 8 eliminates the ability of same-sex couples to enter into an official relationship designated “marriage,” in all other respects those couples continue to possess, under the state constitutional privacy and due process clauses, “the core set of basic substantive legal rights and attributes traditionally associated with marriage.”

Which means no, dude, you can’t “gay marry” instead of “real marry” your girlfriend and then stay out late watching Star Trek: Into Darkness with your friends on opening day at midnight on a Thursday and think you’re going to avoid her nagging bullshit when you get home.

That is some serious science-fiction escapism.

On the state’s obligations to same-sex couples:

All three branches of state government continue to have the duty to eliminate the remaining important differences between “marriage” and “domestic partnership,” both in substance and perception. Such differences are, in the opinion of this Court, a bunch of crap.

Two guys living together can get health insurance, but a guy shacked up with his girlfriend can’t?

Total horseshit.

If you want free blood work and no co-pay, then you should have to march your assless chaps down the aisle and say ‘I do,’ goddammit.

Gay couples get all kinds of sex all the time, they get parades, they get their own fuckin’ TV networks — plus they can score antibiotics for a sinus infection without auctioning off their extremities?

Total horseshit.

Filed under gay gays lesbian lesbians homosexual homosexuals homosexuality gay marriage same sex marriage same sex doma defense of marriage act civil union civil unions domestic partnership domestic partnerships california prop 8 proposition 8 obama barack obama marriage pregnancy pregnant

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Cranberries, the Can-Do Berries

Where did all the cranberries come from?

I never even saw a real cranberry when I was a kid.  And I sure never ate a real cranberry.

The only time you heard about cranberries was Thanksgiving — and that’s not even real cranberries.  That’s a squat little fireplug of purple gelatinous goo so jiggly just-out-of-a-can, you can still see the corrugation on the sides like chins on Newt Gingrich.

The Motion of the Ocean Spray

If you said “cranberry” when I was a kid, I’d say “Ocean Spray” like Marco Polo, jack.  I knew that much from TV commercials. But I still didn’t know what a cranberry was. 

Cranberries might even be a fictional food, like nectar of the gods, manna from heaven, or an Egg McMuffin.  Might as well call ‘em Franken Berries.

Cranberries are perverts, though.  In Ocean Spray’s secret laboratories, the cranberry showed its willingness to fuck any kind of fruit, so you wound up with mutant cran-apples, cran-grapes, and other cran-kids nobody wanted. 

So Ocean Spray squeezed ‘em all into a juice that if you gave to a actual kid, he’d cry for an hour till he got a serious goddamn juice like Sunny D.

To Cranfinity and Beyond

Now cranberries are everywhere.

Cranberry Raspberry Snapple. Cranberry Twist Tea. Canada Dry Cranberry Soda. Orange-Cranberry Muffins. Oatmeal Cranberry Cookies.

There’s even a band called The Cranberries, but they’re Irish so it’s probably a tribute to Stuff You Can Ferment in a Plastic Bag to Make Liquor in Prison. 

They make dried cranberries, but nobody would eat something called dried cranberries, so they call them craisins.  Which is supposed to sound better.  Sounds craisy to me.

When Leo orders cranberry juice in a bar in The Departed, the other guy has so much cranberry trivia at his fingertips, he informs Leo that cranberries are a natural diuretic.  Which ought to mean they give you diarrhea, but really means they make you pee.

If you ate enough cranberries, sure, you’d get diarrhea — but you can’t eat that many cranberries, because they’re as bitter as Republicans on November 7, 2012.

Can-Do Berries

If they could get so many cranberries into so much of our lives without a single complaint (our fuckin’ cookies?), maybe the cranberry people could do the same with gay marriage.

Just fold gay marriage into the texture of everyday life, no big deal, nothin’ to see here, folks, till it’s everywhere, in every town in every state, just like that. 

And nobody even notices, when they sit down to snack on some fresh, wholesome, old-fashioned oatmeal cookies, they’re really getting a big ol’ mouthful of gay.  And that doesn’t taste so bad, now, does it?

Filed under cranberries Newt Gingrich Election Day 2012 The Departed gay marriage same-sex marriage