Dear Evangelicals,
Dear Evangelicals,
I have tried to be nice. I have used Ghandi and Dr. King as role-models. I believed that passive-resistance and rallies might actually get something accomplished.
I have written letters. Attended marches. I have spoken to strangers at grocery stores. And yet, somehow, you still don't want me to make the moral choice of committing to one person.
This only leads me to believe that you WANT me to be a promiscuous man.
So, here's your last chance. This is the final bargain:
Allow me and my people to marry or we will take the promiscuity to a whole new level. And we will start with your sons. (Those of legal age. Which is, in the US, as young as 16 and as old as 18.) We will begin, hensforth, to begin seducing your children to our ways. We will recruit them to our numbers. And we are leigon.
I suppose you can try to hide your sons from us. But, then, it didn't work for Rapunzel, so why should it work for you? I reccommend that you keep your sons at home. The grocery store isn't safe. Do you remember that skinny bag boy who dropped your pizza rolls? When he bent over to pick them up, he was just giving your 18 year-old son a taste of what is possible. Skip the gas station. Never order flowers. Target and Best Buy are probably not a good idea. WalMart might SEEM safe on the surface -- but we have you fooled. Don't even think of going for a haircut. We will find him, enfold him into our group, and then send him out for more.
It's like this, sweet sullied-children of Christ, we WANT to make a good decision. Many of us WANT a sweet little closed unit of two men. Living a life with a white picket fence and a miniature poodle. Not noticing the outside world except for the occational brunch or darts on Wednesday nights.
But apparently, you don't want us to hive off. That's fine. There are other options.
I myself am going to put on my best Amberbrombie and Fitch. I'm going to go to the local campus bar, and I'm going to buy a drink for the first over-21 that I meet. "Just from a bro to a bro." The drinks will keep flowing. None for me, thanks, I just like Sprite. And then I will drive him home. Doing nothing more than giving him a kiss goodnight. Unless, and this is likely, he kisses me back. MY how that will change his world view.
He just might have some surprising news for you this Thanksgiving.
I'm out the door. Let me know if you change your mind. Maybe gay marriage isn't such a bad compromise after all. I've found my car keys, it'll take me a half hour to get there. I'm already singing Barry White.
Yours truly,
Quill.
P.S. You can reach me at 1-800-FUCK-OFF.
I have tried to be nice. I have used Ghandi and Dr. King as role-models. I believed that passive-resistance and rallies might actually get something accomplished.
I have written letters. Attended marches. I have spoken to strangers at grocery stores. And yet, somehow, you still don't want me to make the moral choice of committing to one person.
This only leads me to believe that you WANT me to be a promiscuous man.
So, here's your last chance. This is the final bargain:
Allow me and my people to marry or we will take the promiscuity to a whole new level. And we will start with your sons. (Those of legal age. Which is, in the US, as young as 16 and as old as 18.) We will begin, hensforth, to begin seducing your children to our ways. We will recruit them to our numbers. And we are leigon.
I suppose you can try to hide your sons from us. But, then, it didn't work for Rapunzel, so why should it work for you? I reccommend that you keep your sons at home. The grocery store isn't safe. Do you remember that skinny bag boy who dropped your pizza rolls? When he bent over to pick them up, he was just giving your 18 year-old son a taste of what is possible. Skip the gas station. Never order flowers. Target and Best Buy are probably not a good idea. WalMart might SEEM safe on the surface -- but we have you fooled. Don't even think of going for a haircut. We will find him, enfold him into our group, and then send him out for more.
It's like this, sweet sullied-children of Christ, we WANT to make a good decision. Many of us WANT a sweet little closed unit of two men. Living a life with a white picket fence and a miniature poodle. Not noticing the outside world except for the occational brunch or darts on Wednesday nights.
But apparently, you don't want us to hive off. That's fine. There are other options.
I myself am going to put on my best Amberbrombie and Fitch. I'm going to go to the local campus bar, and I'm going to buy a drink for the first over-21 that I meet. "Just from a bro to a bro." The drinks will keep flowing. None for me, thanks, I just like Sprite. And then I will drive him home. Doing nothing more than giving him a kiss goodnight. Unless, and this is likely, he kisses me back. MY how that will change his world view.
He just might have some surprising news for you this Thanksgiving.
I'm out the door. Let me know if you change your mind. Maybe gay marriage isn't such a bad compromise after all. I've found my car keys, it'll take me a half hour to get there. I'm already singing Barry White.
Yours truly,
Quill.
P.S. You can reach me at 1-800-FUCK-OFF.