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.”