I protested the war in Washington, DC this weekend. Guess what? Straight people simply have no clue how to stage a parade.
Don't misinterpret my criticism. It was a perfectly adequate showing of over 100,000 people. But the entire enterprise lacked flair. It simply wasn't gay enough. (Then again perhaps I'm setting the bar too high?)
Chief on my list of complaints: there were absolutely no floats showcasing partially naked, dancing men. Not a single one! Yes my precious dandies, I'm equally shocked. I kept thinking, "This is such a squandered opportunity." What is a parade without naked boys dancing? A cheery float decorated in camouflage greens and desert browns with some really sexy, buff muscle boys wearing dog tags and military issue jock straps (ooh and little helmets!) pumping and grinding against some minority muscle boys (likely Latino, they can easily pass for Middle Eastern) all chained up, equally stripped down and grinding into their carnal captors would have been a profound declaration of animosity toward the horrible abuses committed at Abu Ghraib and could have served as a more lascivious landscape to the day's pathetic processional. Alas, not a single athletic (or stripper) supporter in sight. That, in my opinion, does not make for a fantastic peace parade.
Also, how many grieving mothers does it take to bum out my Saturday sunshine? Roughly nine thousand and one. I haven't seen such waterworks since I told my own mother I'd be enjoying sausage, not eggs, for breakfast for the rest of my life... Such a fit of wretchedness at the Shoney's all-you-can-eat breakfast bar was, needless to say, very embarrassing. My coming out was a tad bit confusing considering the locale to implement my rather vague euphemism regarding 'sexuality as breakfast entrees'. But my dear mommy eventually 'got it' and proved a veritable fountain of tears as she pitifully dissected her soggy French toast sticks contemplating my future as a pork chewing homosexual.
Sadly there was no breakfast to glumly stare into as these mothers cried and cried, only patchouli smeared hipsters with ratty, white boy dreadlocks and a bizarre puppet processional of fat girls wielding cardboard body shields, resembling merry turds, dancing in a hypnotic pattern. All the while we stood in place for hours and hours as the march refused to actually start marching. A purple goddess on stilts swayed above us periodically verifying that yes, the parade still wasn't moving.
We? Us? Yes my fellow fops. I neglected to mention, my dear friend Fink was there! We traveled from the claustrophobic streets of New York City to the strangely sterile tourist's haven of our nation's capital to witness history not in motion. We stood and stood and stood some more. Finally the parade shuffled forward. Fink and I completed half of the march before retiring to a local businessman's pub for $3 beer and 25 cent chicken wings. We made certain to scream at the White House, but a veiled clan of anarchists created anxiety that could only be cured by frosted pints of Brooklyn Lager. Also among our bizarre company of soldiers of peace was my father who drove to DC from Georgia to attend the protest.
My father is a Vietnam War veteran. Sporting shaggy, graying hair, dressed in a Neil Young t-shirt and the very soldier's jacket in which he wore home nearly forty years ago, he looks every bit the crazed survivalist veteran who'd blow your brains out before you'd have a chance to shake his quivering, post traumatic stress disordered hand. Unfortunately, he's rather well adjusted.
My father's proudest possession (next to his impressive record collection) is a red and white striped replica of the original Son's of Liberty flag bearing a blue peace sign. He happily unfurled his flag to fly as we stood waiting for the parade to begin. It fluttered next to a collection of poster board slogans and other flags. Among these were rainbow flags bearing the word 'peace'! Rainbow flags! I scrutinized each bearer of my people's sacred flag, hoping that a large contingent of gay protesters were in attendance, incorporating our message of diversity and unity with that of peace.
Unfortunately not; the queerest person I saw was a bearded lady. No joke. She had a goatee. And she was topless and tattooed. I josh you not! She stood with other topless ladies stroking her van dyke. That's a type of beard, pervert. The carriers of these mutant rainbow/peace pennants were, indeed, straight families and little old ladies! Grannies for Peace really rocked the route. Although there was no circuit float, miniscule grand matrons screaming "Eat shit Bush, you cowardly motherfucker!" at the White House and then cheerily hugging complete strangers really proved a pick-me-up while scornfully scrutinizing those rainbow peace flags.
I appreciate anyone's willingness to carry the rainbow flag, but again the straights have absconded with my symbols and reshaped it into something to suit their peace mongering, liberal agenda. Oh well. I'm very relieved my family is quite liberal. I don't imagine them cheering me on as I gyrate on my "Abu Grab" float anytime soon (perhaps I could don boy-drag and pontificate all 'thumbs up!' as criminal Lynndie England), but they certainly support my politics and my bedroom choices, no matter where I dine on the buffet. Congratulations weepy mothers, creepy turd puppets and bearded lady, the parade wasn't fantastic, but it was certainly adequate. In these dark times you can't ask for much more.
Don't misinterpret my criticism. It was a perfectly adequate showing of over 100,000 people. But the entire enterprise lacked flair. It simply wasn't gay enough. (Then again perhaps I'm setting the bar too high?)
Chief on my list of complaints: there were absolutely no floats showcasing partially naked, dancing men. Not a single one! Yes my precious dandies, I'm equally shocked. I kept thinking, "This is such a squandered opportunity." What is a parade without naked boys dancing? A cheery float decorated in camouflage greens and desert browns with some really sexy, buff muscle boys wearing dog tags and military issue jock straps (ooh and little helmets!) pumping and grinding against some minority muscle boys (likely Latino, they can easily pass for Middle Eastern) all chained up, equally stripped down and grinding into their carnal captors would have been a profound declaration of animosity toward the horrible abuses committed at Abu Ghraib and could have served as a more lascivious landscape to the day's pathetic processional. Alas, not a single athletic (or stripper) supporter in sight. That, in my opinion, does not make for a fantastic peace parade.
Also, how many grieving mothers does it take to bum out my Saturday sunshine? Roughly nine thousand and one. I haven't seen such waterworks since I told my own mother I'd be enjoying sausage, not eggs, for breakfast for the rest of my life... Such a fit of wretchedness at the Shoney's all-you-can-eat breakfast bar was, needless to say, very embarrassing. My coming out was a tad bit confusing considering the locale to implement my rather vague euphemism regarding 'sexuality as breakfast entrees'. But my dear mommy eventually 'got it' and proved a veritable fountain of tears as she pitifully dissected her soggy French toast sticks contemplating my future as a pork chewing homosexual.
Sadly there was no breakfast to glumly stare into as these mothers cried and cried, only patchouli smeared hipsters with ratty, white boy dreadlocks and a bizarre puppet processional of fat girls wielding cardboard body shields, resembling merry turds, dancing in a hypnotic pattern. All the while we stood in place for hours and hours as the march refused to actually start marching. A purple goddess on stilts swayed above us periodically verifying that yes, the parade still wasn't moving.
We? Us? Yes my fellow fops. I neglected to mention, my dear friend Fink was there! We traveled from the claustrophobic streets of New York City to the strangely sterile tourist's haven of our nation's capital to witness history not in motion. We stood and stood and stood some more. Finally the parade shuffled forward. Fink and I completed half of the march before retiring to a local businessman's pub for $3 beer and 25 cent chicken wings. We made certain to scream at the White House, but a veiled clan of anarchists created anxiety that could only be cured by frosted pints of Brooklyn Lager. Also among our bizarre company of soldiers of peace was my father who drove to DC from Georgia to attend the protest.
My father is a Vietnam War veteran. Sporting shaggy, graying hair, dressed in a Neil Young t-shirt and the very soldier's jacket in which he wore home nearly forty years ago, he looks every bit the crazed survivalist veteran who'd blow your brains out before you'd have a chance to shake his quivering, post traumatic stress disordered hand. Unfortunately, he's rather well adjusted.
My father's proudest possession (next to his impressive record collection) is a red and white striped replica of the original Son's of Liberty flag bearing a blue peace sign. He happily unfurled his flag to fly as we stood waiting for the parade to begin. It fluttered next to a collection of poster board slogans and other flags. Among these were rainbow flags bearing the word 'peace'! Rainbow flags! I scrutinized each bearer of my people's sacred flag, hoping that a large contingent of gay protesters were in attendance, incorporating our message of diversity and unity with that of peace.
Unfortunately not; the queerest person I saw was a bearded lady. No joke. She had a goatee. And she was topless and tattooed. I josh you not! She stood with other topless ladies stroking her van dyke. That's a type of beard, pervert. The carriers of these mutant rainbow/peace pennants were, indeed, straight families and little old ladies! Grannies for Peace really rocked the route. Although there was no circuit float, miniscule grand matrons screaming "Eat shit Bush, you cowardly motherfucker!" at the White House and then cheerily hugging complete strangers really proved a pick-me-up while scornfully scrutinizing those rainbow peace flags.
I appreciate anyone's willingness to carry the rainbow flag, but again the straights have absconded with my symbols and reshaped it into something to suit their peace mongering, liberal agenda. Oh well. I'm very relieved my family is quite liberal. I don't imagine them cheering me on as I gyrate on my "Abu Grab" float anytime soon (perhaps I could don boy-drag and pontificate all 'thumbs up!' as criminal Lynndie England), but they certainly support my politics and my bedroom choices, no matter where I dine on the buffet. Congratulations weepy mothers, creepy turd puppets and bearded lady, the parade wasn't fantastic, but it was certainly adequate. In these dark times you can't ask for much more.
1 comment:
You was robbed.
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