INDULGING IN A LITTLE POSTMORTEM GAYIFICATION

INDULGING IN A LITTLE POSTMORTEM GAYIFICATION

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I walked into the kitchen carrying a 55-gallon hefty extra-heavy duty trash bag full of our weekly laundry (because that's how we roll around here) and I see Patricia sitting at the counter with ‘Thank You’ cards.  “Who are you thanking, and what are you thanking them for?” I asked.  “I’m sending one to Pope Francis and one to Lucien Greaves of The Satanic Temple,” she replied. 

One of the reasons that Patricia and I have been together for so long is that she is always able to say something that makes my left eyebrow go up, and I love that.  I love it even more now, as I watch North Carolina plummet off of all of the good lists and sky-rocket up all of the bad lists as the dookie-heads in Raleigh keep spreading their dookie, led by Pat ‘I’m basking in the attention, North Carolinians be damned’ McCrory.  Well, at least I had a year to get used to it (remember Amendment One?).  So when Patricia offers me something like this, it almost makes the shame bearable.

“You’ve been moping around here lately,” she continued, “and I’ve figured out a way to lift your spirits and put some cash in our pockets at the same time.”  “From Pope Francis?” I asked.  “He gave me the first piece of the puzzle,” she explained.  “He is now selling indulgences.  Anyone who follows his tweets can have their time in purgatory slashed to an insanely reduced sentence.  Oh, and we are now official followers.”  “First of all,” I cautiously began, “I didn’t know purgatory was still a thing.  And, we’re not Catholic, but I’m dying to see how The Satanic Temple fits into this.” She told me to shut up.

She went on to explain how the members of The Satanic Temple performed a ‘Pink Mass’ over the grave of Westboro Baptist Church founder Fred Phelps’ mother, thereby turning her into a postmortem lesbian.  First of all, I always thought a ‘Pink Mass’ was not so much a religious ritual as the gathering of 3 or more evangelical, republican, politically teabaggy-type people. 

















Secondly, I always thought the Mormons were evil bitches for doing this kind of thing, but it seems so very, very right when Satanists have a go at it.  And lastly, any sex that produces a Fred Phelps would be, I would think, lesbian-producing as a consequence, all by itself.

Patricia went on to explain her plan of performing Pink Masses over the graves of the relatives of people our ‘clients’ don’t  like, turning them gay, and then something about karma.  “Isn’t that homophobic,” I asked.  “Only to them,” she smiled.  I had my doubts and Patricia obviously saw them on my face.  “Look,” she stressed, “haven’t you ever thought about turning a straight person gay?”  I looked off dreamily as the theme from RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK played in my head.  “Fair point,” I conceded.

I thought about it some more and finally decided that, what-the- heck, it couldn’t hurt, and besides, the spirit world can always use more gay.  I asked her what we should charge for this service and I’m still not sure how she came up with an estimated retail price of $37.50.  It had something to do with volume and the skyrocketing cost of camping equipment.

Then, other questions came to me:

1.      What exactly is a “Pink Mass”?

2.      Is there a certification process?

3.      Do we need classes or is it more of a ‘calling’?

4.      What about insurance?

5.      Can this be done without using chickens?

6.      What if their relative was already gay?  Will that rip a hole though time and will it hurt?

7.      Is ‘Posthumous Gay Done The Right Way’ too cheesy for the brochure?

8.      Can we call ourselves priests and can I wear a collar?

9.      Does gay sex on a gravestone count as desecration?  If not, what else will be needed?

10.  How heavy a hand will Satan have in this?

11.  Does vomit have to be involved?

12.  What if I get dizzy?

13.  Can we act as independent contractors or does The Satanic Temple hold the patent?

As I was studying these questions, Patricia said something that changed everything.  “What if,” she speculated, “that by changing a living person’s ancestor’s sexual orientation, the living person’s sexual orientation could be altered and what if that was enough to alter everything else?  What if they became someone totally different?  What if a few of North Carolina’s legislators could suddenly see the cruelty behind their political jockeying with the help of freshly gayified ancestors from beyond?” 

I stood up and bolted for my office.  I sat down and Googled as fast as I could.  Patricia was right behind me.  “What are you doing,” she asked.  “Be quiet,” I pleaded.  “I’m trying to track down Harrison Ford’s family cemetery.”

 

 

FETUS, LOVE THYSELF

FETUS, LOVE THYSELF

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I’ll never forget the first time I masturbated.  I was around 22 weeks gestation (I was a late bloomer), and thanks to Rep. Michael Burgess, R-Texas, I finally feel completely vindicated.  During the House Rules Committee debate  on the 'Pain-Capable Unborn Child Protection Act,' he asserts that he has personally witnessed male fetuses with their hands “between their legs” pleasuring themselves.  I was personally outraged and horrified by his admission….until I realized he is a former OB/GYN and was referring to watching an Ultrasound and not a website that requires a membership and features fetal porn.

This is also great news for the Westboro Baptist Church.  Now they can identify the damned before they’re born and schedule protests for everything from 1^st birthday parties to kindergarten graduations, because really, we're at a point in this society where we need just half a reason to protest anything.  But let me back track just a bit.

I was having another argument with Patricia that started with a sincere question on my part.  I asked her why women had such a hang up about the gentle art of ‘rotating the tires’ when she somehow twisted it into something squalid.  She accused me of misogyny and I huffed “just like a woman,” under my breath.

After she won the slap fight, I told her of all the women I’ve asked about this who either claim (rather angrily if you ask me) to have “NEVER” touched themselves “EVER!”  Or grudgingly confessed to liking the hobby horses just a little too much but thanks to Jesus, it’s all okay now.   

Patricia assured me that uptightness is not specific to one gender or the other (or that 3^rd one). And she has the Carrie Prejean ‘educational’ bootleg video to prove it.  I conceded her point (not wishing to witness exhibit A) with the proviso that she concede that people in the entertainment industry are generally not the best examples of the general consensus on…..anything.

But back to the women I have spoken with.  Maybe it’s a small-town thing, maybe it’s a southern thing, maybe it’s a Christian thing, but these women acted as if just the thought of even accidentally ‘letting your fingers do the walking’ ranks right up there with murder and Satan worship. 

 I know it’s all a part of that whole ‘women are different’ thing and I believe it’s true, when it comes to this issue.  I recently read in Psychology Today that a recent study by Chicago sociologists revealed that out of a random sample of people across a wide age range that only 38% of women admitted to masturbating in the past year.  It’s the only way I can understand it because I can’t imagine why anyone would not want to spend quality time ‘adjusting the thermostat’.  I always considered it a part of routine body maintenance (one of the few that I actually look forward to).  I mean, for god's sake, if for no other reason, it's a better sleep facilitator than Tylenol Flu medication (and much cheaper).
 

The most shocking number was that only 61% of men admitted to masturbating in the past year.  The only conclusion that I can draw from this is that 39% of men in the Chicago area are filthy liars.

I know that Patricia doesn’t have a problem with it.  There have been many a night she has spent at my house when, in the middle of the night, I could swear I heard some kind of brawl happening in her room.  No wonder she can’t keep a girlfriend.  There’s very few that can match her intensity.



One of the silliest arguments I heard against ‘nursing the grudge’ was from a clinched, very prim churchy type.  She proclaimed with an authority earned from decades of self-denial, that it was a selfish act.  I told the woman that that was a lie, because all my male friends know that they barely have to ask and I would be more than happy to ‘lend a hand’.

So, all you fathers-to-be, the next time you are huddled around an Ultrasound screen with a roomful of strangers and Junior decides to launch into his solo, take a deep breath, hold you head high with shoulders back, smile broadly and proudly proclaim, “that’s my boy!”

 

RANDY & PATRICIA PASS WITH FLYING COLORS

RANDY & PATRICIA PASS WITH FLYING COLORS

By:  Randy Gillis

 

“This is all your fault!” I snapped.  “I wanted to go to Morrow Mountain, but oh no, it had to be Kuwait.”  Patricia looked up from her paper.  “This is a timed test,” she warned.

So, here we are, thanks to Patricia and her unbridled lesbian lust, sitting in the ‘interview’ room of the Kuwait International Airport, taking a ‘homosexual’ test before we can enter the country. 

 

 

For the first time in months we managed to get an entire weekend off together.  Patricia suggested a trip.  I should have insisted on details before I let her make all the arrangements.  I was thinking maybe a day trip to do some hiking or perhaps the Zoo.  It wasn’t until we took off from the Greensboro airport that I began to feel a bit apprehensive. 

Patricia picked Kuwait partly because of some sort of military memory and partly, as she explained it, because Muslim women are primed for possible ‘lifestyle’ changes due to their living in the Middle East equivalent of Mississippi.  Though, considering what the tea-baggots are doing to North Carolina, that comparison isn’t as satisfying as it used to be. 

“What did you put for number three?” I asked.  She actually put her arm over her paper to prevent me from seeing.  “This ain’t the SATs shug,” I warned.  “Kuwait will be deadly dull without me.”  “Sorry,” she replied, “reflex.  The answer is Melissa Etheridge.”  “Why do I have lesbian questions on my test?” I complained.  “Would it kill you to learn a little about lesbian history?” she scolded.  “Hey, I watch Ellen,” I shot back. 

Oh, I suppose I can’t blame Kuwait for wanting to keep out the gay rubbish.  Lord knows there are plenty of them.  We got lazy with our borders and look what happened.  Canadian trash swept in and shut down our government.

 

 

“If lesbian (A) leaves the Home Depot at 12:00 heading east at 60 mph on her Harley, and lesbian (B), leaves the lumber yard’….god, I hate word problems!” I screamed.  “It’s a trick question idiot,” Patricia scoffed.  “No self-respecting lesbian would crawl along at 60 mph.”  “I don’t know why we have to take a stupid test anyway,” I whined, “why wouldn’t they take our word for it?  Do you think the military guy at the gate misunderstood me when he asked if we were homosexual, I said, ‘is the Pope Catholic?  Of course a lot of Catholics are asking the same question these days.”  “I don’t think it was so much your response as your twerking during your response,” she said.  “Was that totally necessary?”  “I thought it would be a good ice-breaker,” I justified.  “These people are way too serious.  Besides, he could have been a little sympathetic when I threw my back out.”

 

 

“Oh screw it!” I yelled.  “I’m just picking ‘C’ for the rest of these.”  I started circling ‘C’ on my test on the remaining questions and turned my paper over.  “Are you sure about that?” Patricia asked.  “Don’t worry,” I soothed.  “I’ll make up the points during the demonstration section.” 

Two armed soldiers walked in and collected our tests.  I used this time as a chance to clearly state our case.  “I would just like to say that neither you nor your government, nor…” I go blank.  In a panic I look at Patricia when it hits me.  “….nor Allah, have a thing to worry about.  We are top drawer homosexuals!  We work, pay our taxes, have never served hard time and only went the full Monty once at a gay pride in San Francisco.  We love our families and friends, fight for freedom (when it doesn’t clash with American Horry Story), and we will proudly hold our ‘queer’ up for anyone to inspect.”  The soldier just stared at me. 

I can’t really go into what happened next because of that international court thingy coming up in November, but sufficed to say that I will be doing all the planning for our trips until further notice.  

 

 

RANDY REMEMBERS AN ANNIVERSARY

RANDY REMEMBERS AN ANNIVERSARY

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I was sitting at my desk, in my office, in my house, minding my own business, contemplating my impending radical life-style change (that’s another story) when it happened again.  The ever-comforting scent of sulfur tickled my nose .  I looked over and saw Kyle filling the doorway.  When your gay demon shows up, looking all disappointed, well, it can chip away at your self-esteem.  Luckily I have esteem to spare.

 

 

He ducked his head down to clear the doorway and clomped in with heavy hooves.  I usually just ignore him, forcing him to speak first.  He stood there for our obligatory silent standoff until I heard the pre-rant snort he’s famous for.

 

“It’s not like I haven’t tried,” he lamented.  “But you don’t give me anything to work with other than snarky one-liners, sarcasm and apathy.  What am I supposed to do with that?  It’s why I hate working with atheists!  Are you listening to me?”  “I would if you were saying anything,” I replied.

“Maybe you didn’t get the memo,” he snorted, “but the sullen homosexual went out with the…”  He paused, catching himself and hoping I wouldn’t notice.  “You were going to say ark, weren’t you,” I interjected.  “Shut up!” he snapped.  “What’s wrong with you?  There’s so much to be had out there, why do you constantly refuse it?” At this point I could tell that he was going to go on for a while so I just went inside my head again as I feigned interest.

What was wrong with me was that I remember.  I remember the very first news stories where they actually said the word ‘homosexual’ and that apparently we now had our very own cancer.

 

 

 

 

 

I remember wave after wave of death, protests, quilts, politicians and preachers and what they said.

 

 

 

I remember the first man I ever kissed (who went on to be my one and only boyfriend) and the knee weakening ecstasy (that I had always heard about but had never experienced) that came with it.  I remember him telling me one day that he was ‘concerned’ about his HIV status.  I remember finding his HIV medication and learning that he was not merely positive but in the end-stages of AIDS.  I remember the anger that consumed me; anger at him, anger at me, anger at HIV, quilts, politicians, and preachers. 

I remember going to the hospital the day he died and kissing him on his forehead as he lay unresponsive and whispering that it was okay.  I remember watching his mother fall apart at finding out that her son was gay and dying of AIDS at the same moment.  I remember going to his funeral and feeling every stare. 

I remember going to the health department (alone), holding a piece of paper with a number on it (alone), hearing my number called (alone), sitting in the exam room (alone) and having a stranger ask me questions that left me humiliated (alone).  I remember feeling dirty (alone).  I remember repeating this every 3 months for a year and a half (alone) until I was finally ‘cleared’. 

I remember failing every time since him, when trying to capture the feeling of that first kiss. I remember missing him.  And every now and then, from out of nowhere, I remember it all at once.

The words ‘Harrison Ford’s jock strap’ jolted me back to the present.  I looked over and Kyle was still ranting.  “Could you back up a few sentences before that Harrison Ford thing?” I asked. 

“Do you have any idea what it’s like to walk into the lounge down there and all the other demons just go quiet,” he demanded.  “I mean, even Eddie Murphy’s demon…uh…caseworker won’t look me in the eye!”

“Honey, honey,” I whispered calmly.  “I promise you, if you stop yelling at me, this weekend I will go out and do the gayest thing I can think of.”  Kyle’s expression melted from anguish to relief.  He lumbered over and pulled my head to his heaving chest like a mother in cradling mode.  “Oh, if you only knew how long I’ve been waiting to hear those words,” he gushed.

He stood there just long enough to be uncomfortable when he released my head and headed toward the office door with a much lighter gait.  Just as he was disappearing he turned.  “Now remember your promise,” he instructed.  And then he was gone.  I sat there, looking at the now empty doorway.  “I’ll remember,” I whispered. 

 

 

BYE-BYE BACHMANNS

BYE-BYE BACHMANNs

 

By:  Randy Gillis

 

 

 

 

 

 

To help commemorate the departure of Michele Bachmann from the political arena (hopefully), I thought I would dig up one from the vaults.  Way back when word got out that Michele's hubby Marcus was in the 'cure the gay' business, and after seeing an eye-opening YouTube video of him, I decided to write him a letter, offering him what I thought was some sage advice.  And considering he will now be primary bread earner, I think most of it is still good, especially if he intends to work outside the Cabaret circuit.  So, for old time's sake:

 

AN OPEN LETTER TO DR. MARCUS BACHMANN

 

Dear Dr. Bachmann,

Having just been introduced to you through the miracles of the Internet, I feel compelled to send this letter of warning.  Given all the good work you do with homosexuals by delivering them to righteousness through your reparative therapy program (and with no small contribution from the power of Jesus Christ), you should know that you are in danger.  In any demonic possession situation, it is never the possessed that are at spiritual risk, it’s the exorcist.

I fear that dedicating so much of your time to those tormented souls has resulted in some “contamination,” if you will.  To be blunt, you’re showing some signs.  The moment I heard your voice my gaydar (which was turned off and secured on the top shelf of my closet) turned itself on, hopped into my office, jumped on top of my head and screamed like a girl.  When we watched your charming dance on stage with your lovely wife Michelle, my gaydar reached for the letter opener and killed itself.

As we all know by now, prolonged exposure to homosexuality will result in ever increasing homofication of God-fearing heterosexuals.  Perhaps those closest to you are unable to see what’s happening (or they’re all laughing behind your back).  But from where I sit, it’s as plain as the tranny hooker on Eddie Murphy’s face.

I think your priorities should be as follows:

1.  Voice and diction training.  When it comes to gayness, the proof is in the S’s.  And you, my friend have enough incccccccidiousssssss S’sssss to warrant ssssssimply too much sssssusssssssspiccccccion.  I don’t mean that to be cruel, but you need to know. 

2.  Invest in a movement class.  You have far too much flounce in your bounce.  And hands are always a problem.  If you can’t butch them up, just keep them in your pocket.  In fact, as a general rule, the less movement you make the better.  One limp wrist could undermine your credibility as a butch heterosexual conversion therapist.  And you had far more than a limp wrist happening on that stage.  You had…..JAZZ HANDS.  And we all saw it. 

3.  Watch your grooming.  Yes, heterosexual men can be well-groomed, but there’s well-groomed and then there’s gay-groomed and I think you may have tippy-toed over the line.

4.  No more picking out your wife’s clothes.  Though you do a suspiciously good job, the implications are clear.  You could delegate that task to one of your patients, maybe as a work-study project to help some of the less fortunate gays offset the (totally worth it) high cost of normalcy.  You might as well take advantage before the gay is gone.

Considering the sheer scale of the damage you’re facing, you may need to resort to more extreme measures.  You should seriously consider having an extra-marital affair (with a woman), and a sex tape to go with it.  And no fancy editing.  We’ll need to see face, penis (yours and no one else’s) and vagina all in the same frame.  And no trying to Photoshop your face on to Ron Jeremy’s body. 

As a last resort, you can always enroll yourself in your own reparative therapy program.  The world loves an ex-gay.  They display the strength of will, self-sacrifice and endurance that made America what it is today.

Now that this situation has been brought to your attention I’m sure you will take the steps necessary to ensure you house of heterosexual cards will stand on solid ground.

 

Sincerely,

Your Longtime Companion (in Christ, silly)

Randy, the Barbarian Queen

 

 



HAPPY ANNIVERSARY AMENDMENT ONE!

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY AMENDMENT ONE!

 

By:  Randy Gillis




 

 

 

 

 

 

 One year ago today, North Carolina taught me a fact of life that I wasn't prepared for.  You see, I had always believed that knowing a gay person was the best way to calm fears and change attitudes, but then Amendment One came along and showed me just how naive I really was (and I've lost the friends and family to prove it).  I was so distraught that I couldn't work the next day.  I called in sick (not a lie) and wrote a letter to vent my anger.....and posted it on Facebook.  I though I would dig it out and share it again to mark the occasion:

 

 

Dear North Carolina,

.
Well, you did it. In spite of all the information out there about what this will do to your friends, family and neighbors. In spite of the other-worldly level of contemptuous cosmic thinking and racist origins of this travesty, you loaded up the church vans (like your preachers dictated), headed to the polls (like your preachers dictated), picked up a pen (an advanced instrument for many of you) and filled in the circle for Amendment One, further demonizing your fellow North Carolinians (like your preachers dictated). What makes it all the more fun is that YOU are the ones who constantly whine like little bitches about the "evil" of government intrusion. Are you feeling proud?
********
Before I continue with this diatribe, I want to extend my love and thanks to all my friends who voted against this insanity and for all the love and support you have given me in these difficult days. As the Apostle RuPaul would say, "ConDRAGulations, you're safe," and always in my heart.
********
Now, if I have any friends or family who voted for Amendment One (and yes, I'm talking to you), or who didn't vote but thought Amendment One was a good idea (and yes, I'm talking to you), I ask only one thing of you. I would like for you to muster all your strength and scrape together an ounce of integrity (Google it if you need a definition) and REMOVE me from your friend list, because we aren't friends. If this is how you feel about gay marriage then this is how you feel about me. We are the same and at this point, why add hypocrisy to insult to injury? This is not one of those situations where we can "agree to disagree" and chit-chat about pleasanter things. This is far, far bigger than that. There will be no need to exchange words but if you feel compelled, go for it. I have a few on reserve for you. Most of them are short and easily understood.
********
You'll remove me now or I'll remove you later. Makes no difference to me, for you see, gone is the wise-cracking, good-natured Randy. You killed him. But in his death a new creature was born. Say hello to wise-cracking Randy in a poo-poo mood! And it's about to get really ugly in Randy land. It's time to unleash the DOGS OF WAR! Prepare yourselves as I summon the Shih Tzu of Christianophobia, the Pekingese of Islamophobia and the Pomeranian of Jewophobia. Each, by-the-way, has taken "Best in Category" in hell for the last three years. Not-to-mention the Wombats of Mormonophobia and Scientologophobia (cause let's face it, they don't deserve a mammal metaphor), and any other "-ophobia" I may come up with at my whim. My page will become a bastion for blasphemy using whatever combinations of filthy words I can conjure (see, it's started already).
********
I will troll the World Wide Web, gathering every slathering example of "believer" I can find and parade them all over my wall for my amusement. I will type till my tips are shot to hell and my manicurist refuses to see me again, for the sole purpose of expediting your very own prophecy of becoming a mocked and scorned people. I realize that this makes me something of an enabler, but I'm okay with that. But from your side of the counter, it also makes me an important part of your god's plan so suck on that fat one for a while. And by all means, feel free to reply so I can scoff at you, laugh my obnoxious French laugh and delete you faster than a preacher can snort coke off a hustler's ass (which is a totally hot image by-the-way. Does that make me wicked?). I will rip into the flesh of your world-view, gnash my teeth around it, swallow it and return it to you in the form of a rectal blast of steamy contempt (I'm on Metamucil, so that won't be nearly as difficult as you might think). I will raise monuments to the true trinity of Dawkins, Harris and Hitchens, otherwise known as the Father, the Son and (as of December 15, 2011) the Holy Ghost.
********
As I no longer consider myself to be a North Carolinian, I will revel in watching you finally join the cool kids like Mississippi and West Virginia and giggle with glee as you sink to whatever depths your ignorance will allow. I will contribute in any way I can to the national feeding frenzy of mockery and inbreeding jokes (I'm starting my own list of North Carolina jokes now). I will post profanity-laden pot shots and hit below the belt at every opportunity. If great comedy comes from great pain, prepare to laugh your asses off. All of these things I swear to you......that, or I'm going fishing.
********
If you think I'm going just a tad overboard because of one amendment, you're wrong. This if for a lifetime of Amendment 1s, Proposition 8s, Ballot Measure 9s and all the rest. This is for a lifetime of watching and listening as religious "leaders" declare war on and cause the suffering and death of gay people worldwide. This is for a lifetime of watching gay people used as fodder for the political machine. I could go on, but you get the idea.
********
As for Amendment One? It's going to hurt a lot of people; until we undo it....and we will (I'll also get a certain satisfaction out of watching North Carolina go bankrupt trying to defend the indefensible). The only thing you've accomplished is to waken a sleeping giant (although I have lost 12 pounds due to my walking regimen).
********
As for me? Now, whenever someone asks me where I'm from, I will hold my head high and proudly say, "Weeee doggie ya'll, I'm from South Caroliney." Okay, I may leave off the "weeee doggie" part.
.
Sincerely,
Randy Gillis

Wow!  Reading it again, I have to say, it is ugly, angry, and bitter (and sometimes funny).  But it's also an accurate picture of where my head was at one year ago. 

So, what's it like today?  Well, I still struggle to not think about what so many of my friends and some of my family did to me on that day.  I stomp it down or push it away.  But it's always there, waiting to creep back into my head.  I get great comfort from watching marriage equality on a slow but unstoppable march as just yesterday Delaware became the 11th state to adopt what should be a given, legal protection for, and recognition of everyone's right to marry the person that they love.

Of course things will be bad in North Carolina for a long time.  Maybe people are waking up in this state, now that it has become painfully obvious that Amendment One was just a warm up for worse things to come.  Things that will take years to correct.  Only time will tell.  So, until then, I don't want to be a sour puss, so, happy anniversary Amendment One!  I wish you a short life, continued ridicule, and a painful death! :)