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Gay Tidings

 

 

By now you certainly are all well aware of the fact that Disney, in conjunction with Adele Dazeem Idina Menzel and the entire winter season, are conspiring to make your children gay. Most people are choosing to focus on the potentially-gay shopkeeper and the lyrics of the movie’s theme song, “Let it Go,” which could definitely be about accepting your identity as an Ice Queen farting coming out of the closet. Deciding that those were a smoke screen for something far more insidious, I decided to take a closer look. And let me tell you, when you are on a mission to find something that could possibly be perceived as gay, you just might find something that could possibly be perceived as gay. I would like to report my findings here. Shall we start at the beginning? Okay, yes. Let’s.

1. The hetero parents are killed off within the first 10 minutes of the movie, leaving the impressionable daughters to fend off all of The Gayness by themselves. In Europe.  Touché, Gay Agenda. Touché.

2. Everybody is focusing on “Let it Go,” but what of “For the First Time in Forever”?

frozen ballroom(original photo)

Need I say more?

3. When Elsa’s pesky right hand starts acting up and she flees the coronation ball, did you notice that she was wearing just the one white glove?

elsa fleeing(credit)

MJ glove(credit)

Need I say more?

4. Olaf.

Olaf(original photo)

He basically yadda-yadda-yadda’ed The Gay Sex.

Need I say more?

5. Take the word ‘lesbian’ and unscramble it. What words do you see there? I, because I am looking long and hard for these things, see ‘Elsa.’ I see ‘bi.’ I also see ‘An,’ which is maybe what Elsa calls Anna for short. Maybe? Or probably? Let’s go with probably.

Now, this list is not complete. I’ve only seen the movie 3 times. Once it is out on DVD, I plan to watch it daily until I have found every dirty, little gay trick that Disney has managed to sneak into this movie. I will not rest until there is not a single child out there who can enjoy this movie for what Disney claims that it is: a fun musical about strong sisters who love each other unconditionally. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go and find a suitable movie for my little, hetero darlings. Hopefully something with the usual violence and misogyny that we, as the moral compasses of this country, have an obligation to force-feed our children. Try as they might, The Gays will not distract me from this mission. The moral sanctity of future generations depends upon it.

kd lang out magazine let it goI have doctored uncovered evidence that Disney’s plot began in the mid-1990s. Sneaky bastards.

 

Tornado, Torschnado

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(Please don’t steal my photo without linking, or you too will be eaten by an alligator being ridden by Elton John.)

Dead Reckoning

My dad

“Consider the bounty of your dead. All the people you have lost in your life have taught you what value is. They taught you how rare it is to breathe, how unbearably beautiful and sacred it is to feel an ache in the center of your heart.”  -Augusten Burroughs

There are two types of people in this world:

The ones who quickly change the station when Billy Joel’s Scenes From an Italian Restaurant comes on, and the ones who give their fingers a quick stretch, in anticipation of pounding out some Steering Wheel Air Piano during the ‘Brender and Eddie’ portion of the song.

One should always strive to be the second type, and one should always strive to avoid the first type. Nobody is too cool for Air Piano and you are certainly no exception.

Image Credit

No Sheryl, No Cry

Spring has sprung in the Portland area. Birds are chirping, flowers are blooming, inexplicably pale people are sneezing and the “summer music” is back. It’s inescapable: blaring from the grocery store sound system, oozing from the speakers at the coffee shops and blasting from the radios of neighboring cars at stoplights, and, finally, making its final descent, back into the part of my brain where really bad music lives during the off-season (May-early September). Sheryl Crow, Bob Marley, Steve Miller, that Canadian who wants to ride a highway, all night long… Somebody, at some point, while high on something, decided that this would be the soundtrack of the American summer. I, for one, would like to say that I think a revote is in order. Hell, maybe even a revolt.

Here’s the trouble:

1. Sheryl Crow: In a word, she is whiny. By all means, soak up the sun. But please stop singing. Lance pedaled away from the whining, and so will I. (note to self: learn to ride bike)

2. Bob Marley: Been there, smoked that, hung a rug on the wall and pretended it was art, and now I’m a grown-up. Goodbye, Bob. Thanks for the memories (of needing to explain to one of your fans, yet again, that you did not die of “toe cancer.”)

3. Steve Miller: “I bought you a crate of papayas, they waited all night by your door.” Papayas are disgusting. Any friend of papaya is no friend of mine.

4. The Canadian who wants to ride a highway, all night long: no explanation needed

So, what do I actually want to listen to during The Warm Months? I’m not telling you. I’m weird like that when it comes to music everything.

Image

photo credit

Wheels of Misfortune

Do you ever find yourself in a public place, daydreaming about past disappointments and garlic bread, when suddenly a person appears before you where once there was none, your heart skips a beat, and you are certain that you are about to die? Yeah, me too. Often. Too often. And this experience is not relegated to dark alleys and public transportation terminals. In fact, I haven’t been in a dark alley or a public transportation terminal since the early 1990s. I’m talking about the grocery store. I’m talking about the library. I’m talking about the cheap burrito joint. Why are these predators after me, you ask? Who are these blood-hungry pillagers, hell-bent on slaying me where I stand? Well, I’ll tell you. They are demons in the most clever of disguises. They are children. Children whose parents lost their goddamned minds and bought them wheeled shoes.

The skull and crossbones really speak volumes…

Not to put too fine a point on it, but I feel that putting children in wheeled shoes should be considered an act of domestic terrorism and that the Department of Homeland Security should hand these parents their asses on a plate. And then confiscate the wheeled shoes, gather the villagers, and burn the shoes in a huge bonfire in the town square. Drinks and light appetizers should be served, but we can work out the details later.

The thing is, I like to keep tabs on all humans who are within my immediate area. I assess their ability to kill me, based upon a patent-pending formula of size, proximity, age and perceived physical limitations. Wheeled shoes fuck up my whole formula. Kids are quick. Kids are impulsive. Kids have never heard of “personal space.” Do we really need to up their already extraordinarily high chances of breaking the hips of the elderly? I say, let’s not. I say, let’s work together on this societal scourge that is wheeled shoes.

Parents of wheel-footed children, I have a proposal for you. You keep your horrifying precious sociopaths offspring in non-wheeled shoes when they are indoors, and I double dog swear that I will stop sending my kids to the library with nunchucks and throwing stars. Deal?

Psst! Here I Am!

(source

Good morning, K-Mart Shoppers. I see that I have not visited you here for quite some time. I have much to share, but each time that I plan to log on and do so, I realize that I’ve failed to mention a few sort-of major things that are going on and so I log back off, failing to post anything. First and foremost, it would appear that I am having a baby. According to medical professionals, this baby will be a boy. According to my pregnancy app, this boy will make an appearance in or around 58 days from today. As I waddle about, fretting over the big stuff and the small stuff, it occasionally hits me that these medical professionals and that pregnancy app may actually not be a part of some grand conspiracy. It may actually be true that I’m having a baby. This is, all at once, incredible and exciting and breathtaking. It’s also terrifying and grey hair-producing and exhausting. What it isn’t is miraculous, or at least not any more so than any conception, gestation or birth. I can have babies. The proof is in the messy-haired blonde I just peeked at, snoring softly, Abby Cadabby tucked under her arm. I can also lose babies. Unfortunately, we all can. But it isn’t more than what it is. Or at least this is what I will tell you that I believe. I don’t know if it is my largely-Irish DNA or the fact that I was born under the sign of Virgo (or the fact that I used to play truly insane amounts of Tetris), but for me, things must make sense. The puzzle pieces must fit in order to weave a cohesive story. In terms of this one, this Who Gets To Have a Baby and When and How Much Grief Must Be Endured In the Process, I am waving the white flag. This one doesn’t make sense and it never will. One trip to any grocery store in America will shatter your belief that only seemingly “worthy” people get to parent. I read an essay² this morning, written by a mother who was stuck in limbo as her daughter endured diagnostic test after diagnostic test, and this is how it ended:

This is not the other shoe dropping. It is not tragic irony or doom or punishment for our interpretive failures. It is life, with loss woven into its very fabric. That’s just what there is.

So, I’m still here. And I’ll try to visit more often. In part because I really need to talk to you about Heelys and the fact that they are, surely and truly, going to be the death of what makes this country great endurable. So, I’ll see you soon.

 

¹ I’m hoping my baby doesn’t look quite this terrified/appalled/aghast.

² “Lumpy” – Catherine Newman