So. How y’all been? Me, I’ve been busy. Plain and simple statement, made simply and plainly. I’m not bitching or whining, just stating the facts, Ma’am. That busy-ness is why I’ve been missing in action for a couple weeks.
Not that I couldn’t whine should I be the type. But I’m not wired to complain unless I’m unhappy about something in my life, and it isn’t my life I’m unhappy about. It’s the lives of the right-wing Christian conservative shitheads—and their attempts to force their religious dogma down our throats—that’s totally and completely stuck right on up my craw.
Asswipe right-wing racist Christian greedy and narrow-minded chicken fuckers.
Which reminds me. My buddy Bob, over to the Squatlo Rant, ran a video of a man—the husband of a woman who was carrying a terribly damaged fetus—who walked his wife into a clinic to the screams and vitriolic “you’re a murderer” tirades of two anti-abortion protesters. This man—a man who was enduring the terrible human condition of knowing that the baby he was so excited to father was already doomed to die as a fetus in its mother’s womb—had been forced to deliver his pregnant wife through a labyrinth of evil-spirited old hags spewing their toxic swill.
Please go over to Squatlo Rant and check out this amazing man’s response to his plight. Take four minutes from your life to see how a decent, strong man handles those maniacs. Watch his calm, measured words. Watch him debate against evil intent with reason and pure logic. His love for his wife and destined-to-be still-born offspring will tear streak your eyes.
And, if you are me, as you see and hear the protesters’ responses, your anger will surface at realizing that truth and logic and personal freedom are meaningless realities to religious zealots. When I watched that video on my lunch break yesterday, I got so pissed that I decided to unpack my old anti-anti-abortion protest sign and find myself some anti-abortion protesters. I was pissed enough to take the afternoon off and put myself even farther behind at work.
See, while I appreciated that incredible man’s reasoned logic and basic parental love-based emotions, I happen to have the experience required to understand that truth and reasoned logic have no place in the life of Christian zealots. The only thing they understand is that there is not someone with beliefs opposite theirs who feels more strongly they do they. They so strongly believe that they have the firmest convictions, when they meet a giant flaming asshole like me—they either shit their pants and run, or they become violent.
My anti-anti-abortion protest program is a simple one. First, go down to your local Fast Signs or Rapid Signs or Signs-While-You-Wait store and have them make you a sturdy, two-sided placard. I like the corrugated plastic type like they use on real estate signs, and I always get the extra thick. It costs a little more, but lasts way longer in the face of a bunch of shitholes trying to tear it up.
Oh, wait. Did I tell you that I bought some earrings from Ali McGraw? Did I? She was a volunteer at Santa Fe’s International Market, and she manned this booth selling Ethiopian jewelry. Wait, maybe it was Nigerian jewelry—stuff confiscated from INTERNET thieves who bilk dumbass Americans with those silly letters about deposed monarchs. Whateverthefuck, Ms. McGraw was manning a booth and I was walking the dogs, attempting to walk-off a serious after-a-lesbian-dream hangover.
I have been getting these hangovers ever since I married a lesbian—ex-wife number three—and had her fall in love with my equally-lesbian but already out-of-the-closet sister, Sister. While hurt and heart broken by the entire dealio, I found a highly-evolved personal perception of the homosexual conditions, as well as a highly-refined level of lust for lesbians.
My psycho therapist—ex-wife number one—has long held the position that my lesbian lust is nothing but my typical over-the-top response to a “you most want what you can’t have” situation. But me, I know that’s not it at all. I know that I like strong women and some of the strongest are lesbian in nature. Lesbian of nature, maybe.
My first lesbian crush was Martina Navratilova. OK, stop. My first crush after Anna the Amazon crushed my heart and married my sister, was the fabulous tennis star. While my buddies all lusted after Chrissy Everett as she “Uhned” and sweated to chase the powerful strokes of my Eastern European diva, me?—I was hang-tongued over the simple grace and focus and machine-like beauty of Tina.
I called her Tina. Still do. That chiseled body and strong-featured face. I’m in my forties, and I’ve got a poster of Tina Navratilova hanging on my closet door. My feelings were quite hurt when ex-wife number seven made me take it down. Wait, maybe it was number eight. Or was it six?
Anyway, I was walking around up to Museum Hill at the International Festival with the dogs in tow and a powerful post-lesbian dream hangover.
OK, stop once more. I just realized that in fewer than three pages of print, I’ve struck the hyphenator key fifty-one times. Fifty-two if you count typing the word “fifty-one”, and two more just in the telling you that I’d typed it so many fucking times. That’s not an ADHD thingie, that’s the simple precision of my word-smithing. The ADHD influences lie in the fact that I’ve now written almost a thousand words and said absolutely nothing.
Maybe I should try to focus and try to tie all of this ADHD-addled word swill together somehow. OK, I had a dream about Tina. She was planning to make a sports comeback and I was her manager. Like many sports stars who had past-their-primed in their sports-of-stardom, my Tina wanted to stage a prize fight. Box her way back into the limelight.
“Look, Tina—sweetheart,” I advised in my best sports manager voice, “you know and I know—hell, the entire fucking world knows—that you’ve got bigger balls than Sean Hannity. But what’s the point? You kick that little pussy’s ass and you’ll look like a bully. Why don’t you fight Rush Limbaugh instead?”
Tina grabbed me by my shirt collar, twisted it tight against my neck and said to me, she dream-said, “Look, asshole. I’ve already asked you to stop with the male analogies. I don’t have any balls at all, and neither does Sean Hannity. Say I’m tougher or stronger or smarter than him, but drop your fascination with your fucking balls.”
She had a dream point. “Oh,” she’d added with a finger pointed at my nose, “that includes that ‘How’s it hanging, baby,’ bullshit as well. All that’s hanging now are my tits and it pisses me off.”
I’ve seen an actual recent photo of my Tina, and I don’t think she’s got saggy anythings, but in this one dream we were suddenly standing together on the boxing ring apron as the announcer was making his pre-fight speech. “And in this corrrr-neeeerrrrr, from the world of tennnn-issss, The Fore-Hand Assassin… Martinaaaaaaaa… Nav-roooo… Ti-loooooooooooooooo-vaaaaaaaaa!”
Anyway, as I was saying, I was walking the dogs up to Museum Hill at the Festival, and I was distractedly viewing the booths on the one side of the aisles while reliving the dream kiss Tina had planted full on my lips after she KO’d that pompous little Hannity prick.
“Hey, shithead, pull it together. Ali McGraw sighting at your 11 O’clock.”
It was the Squirt. “Whaaa?” I responded as I tried to drag my head out of the dream. “Ali McGraw what?”
“Over there, dumbass, on the left. That booth with the striped canopy,” the adorable lump of brown fur and strong will told me. “Get your shit together and let’s go get us a date with Ms. Destiny.”
With that, Squirt started dragging both me and the goat dog to the booth where Ali-fucking-McGraw sat. I’ve spent months practicing my opening lines to be spoken to the Goddess, Ali McGraw. For months I’ve stood in front of my mirrors perfecting every word, each facial pose, the tenor of my voice, the tilt of my head. All in preparation for my first face-to-face encounter with Ali McGraw.
I was ready. We approached… Ten yards away—she’s finishing with the sale of a beaded necklace to a lady wearing the chic-cowgirl look of Santa Fe’s wealthy visitors. Five yards—Ali turns away from my approach and reaches for a glass. The previous night’s rain has beaded the glass with moisture that clings to her long, lithe fingers in much the same way I’d cling to any of her parts, given the chance.
One yard and closing. The glass is at her lips, my tongue is out to touch both glass and lips, her eyes close and she sips, and swallows. Half-a-yard and closing still. Here I am, in the place I’ve dreampt of being for ten long months. I’m less than three feet from Ali McGraw. I’m primed and ready to fire off my well-practiced, highly-intelligent lines.
I cock my head sixteen degrees to the right to give her my best side, plant a gigantic smile on my face, take a deep breath… And just as she lowers the glass, I bump the table in front of her—hard—and that bumps her chair, which shakes her arm, which then spills water down her chin and into her lap.
“Oh, fuck a duck!” I muttered, maybe a mutter.
“Ooo,” whispers Ms. McGraw, raising a slender hand to brush water spilled on her chin.
I watch the water removal operation with embarrassment tinged with a surge of electrified loins. “Say something to her, asshole,” Squirt is chiding. “This is your big moment.”
My lips were locked in the same silly smile I plastered a million times in the mirror and the words were in my mind. I stared at the beautiful Ali McGraw for what seemed a minute as she now looked back into my eyes. Speak, Mooner, speak! This is your big chance!!!
“How’s it hanging, baby?”
I bought a pair of very expensive earrings for no one in particular, took the paper receipt from the cool-to-the-touch, lithe fingers of Ali McGraw, and slinked away from the booth, towed by the dogs.
“You…” the Squirt muttered, “are a mess. A total fucking mess.”
Which brings me back to my point. Print a personal slogan on each side of your dense, corrugated plastic sign. My personal favorite sign says, “A Woman’s Right To Choose Is Sacred!” and the reverse says, “I’m An Abortion And I’m OK!”
Take your sign down to the Planed Parenthood parking lot and join the protesting. Stand among them and raise your voice to one notch above theirs. “A woman’s right to choose is SACRED!!!”
“I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”
No matter what they say to you, stick to your script. No discussion, no other responses. Don’t try to reason. They yell at you, “You’re a Godless baby killer,” you yell louder, “A woman’s right to choose is sacred!”
They scream at you, “You’ll burn in Hell, Mooner Johnson! I hope God burns you slowly on low heat!!!” and you yell back, “I’m an abortion and I’m OK!”
OK, if they call you Mooner Johnson, you have a special problem, but you catch my drift.
Maybe I can start something here. Maybe some of you will join me in this cause. I’m tired of these attacks on women and humanity—all of them. Let’s make our voices in opposition even louder than theirs.
Fuck right-wing extremist Christians, and Fuck Walmart too!!!
Manana (or sometime after manana), y’all.