Poof In Boots
I have a consciousnose. We all have consciousnese with which we think, and feel. It is with self-awareness that we am who we is. But what about when self-reflection turns to self-reflect-shunned? When who we am might well be who we is, but who we is is not necessarily what you am or what you’d want us to bleed? When we bleed gay, for example, there are those who already write off our blood with aids-riddled delight. Or, when we blow our nose and a bloody nucleus of ethnic girlfriend spells out “WOP LOVER” on the hankie, there are those of us who, tragically, read it in that very way.
We all have desires both similar and distinct, we are unique. And it often shits in our coffee that the gender-fashion-social melange is spit-roasted on liquid E in the bridal suite of Hotel Fear.
And what happens when aforementioned bigotry explodes to bigot-tree, branching into inter-genus uncordiality? Think here of Hugster, the ethnic bear, mocked and called such degrading names as “nigger-fur” and “monkey-paws”. Turn now to Colin, the dyslexic German Shepherd, ridiculed by sheep for an inability to spell words such as “seldom”, “sneaky” and “claptrap”. But especially, consider the memory of young Richard, a homosexual tabby whose persistent bullying from his feline peers led to suicide in 2002. One cold winter morning in December, Richard’s owner, 6-year-old homosexual Daniel Loinsir, walked outside to see his prized, proud cat slumped at the wheel of his father’s car. He had used a hosepipe to gas himself with the exhaust.
Unsurprisingly, young Daniel was inconsolable, and even more so when the twofold tragedy of his pet’s demise was ruthlessly rammed homo. “Daddy,” Daniel began, “I hope Richard is in a better place now. Maybe in Cat Heaven he can be happy once more?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied, “Richard’s mortal sin of suicide means that he will have gone to little old Cat Hell.”
We all have desires both similar and distinct, we are unique. And it often shits in our coffee that the gender-fashion-social melange is spit-roasted on liquid E in the bridal suite of Hotel Fear.
And what happens when aforementioned bigotry explodes to bigot-tree, branching into inter-genus uncordiality? Think here of Hugster, the ethnic bear, mocked and called such degrading names as “nigger-fur” and “monkey-paws”. Turn now to Colin, the dyslexic German Shepherd, ridiculed by sheep for an inability to spell words such as “seldom”, “sneaky” and “claptrap”. But especially, consider the memory of young Richard, a homosexual tabby whose persistent bullying from his feline peers led to suicide in 2002. One cold winter morning in December, Richard’s owner, 6-year-old homosexual Daniel Loinsir, walked outside to see his prized, proud cat slumped at the wheel of his father’s car. He had used a hosepipe to gas himself with the exhaust.
Unsurprisingly, young Daniel was inconsolable, and even more so when the twofold tragedy of his pet’s demise was ruthlessly rammed homo. “Daddy,” Daniel began, “I hope Richard is in a better place now. Maybe in Cat Heaven he can be happy once more?”
“I’m afraid not,” I replied, “Richard’s mortal sin of suicide means that he will have gone to little old Cat Hell.”
So, I ask ye this: Is a gay man staying in a black man’s house which contains no ramps for disabled visitors any worse than a white man beating the elderly for being queer? I’ll let you decide, and I hope you choose wisely.
posted by JS at 11/19/2004 05:24:00 am
1 Comments:
it's no better than the monkey who sells himself to a drug company for unnecessary experiments and no worse than the man who, when threatened by a feminine presence in a gentleman's club, is forced to rape in self-defence
Post a Comment
<< Home