By Susan Bankston
What I’m fixin’ to tell you is dead-solid-perfect true, and so damn uncivilized that you’re gonna shake like a guy riding a three-legged horse.
There’s a Colorado preacher by the name of Kevin Swanson. He’s so popular that Republican presidential candidates Mike Huckabee, Ted Cruz, and Bobby Jindal came to his church to seek his blessing on their campaign to be president of the United States of America.
The Reverend Swanson was asked what he’d do if his son was getting gay-married. He announced, “Here is what I would do: sackcloth and ashes at the entrance to the church, and I’d sit in cow manure and I’d spread it all over my body. That’s what I would do, and I’m not kidding, I’m not laughing.”
Dude, I’m not laughing either. In fact, I called Mr. Gallup Poll to check, and he scientifically confirmed that no-damn-body is laughing. Not even snickering. That is gross. I am going to venture a guess that other people don’t even think about doing stuff like that. Hell, my husband’s mother didn’t like who he married, but all she did was roll her eyes—and she was the craziest damn woman in Dallas, which is something that doesn’t happen without a whole lot of practice.
Holy crap! And I mean that literally. When preachers do stuff like that, it is holy crap.
So, if you’re considering sashaying down the aisle this holiday season and your dad does not approve of the spouse you’ve chosen, we’ve made a helpful list of things—other than manure—that your dad can spread on his body and get lots of news coverage like The Rev. Swanson did.
Things your dad can spread on himself in order to get news coverage at your gay wedding:
1. Nair. Bonus side effect: he can now wear short-shorts.
2. Trojan warming personal lubricant—because it’s handy in his nightstand’s top drawer, carefully hidden under his high school yearbook and numerous expired fishing licenses.
3. Goat blood—far more horrific, yet conveniently biblical.
4. Hay—to satisfy his secretly held urban-cowboy urges.
5. Ben Gay—because that would be so, so, so punny.
Also in the Holy Crap category this holiday season is the Starbucks Cuproar.
Starbucks tossed the campy reindeer and tree ornaments in favor of a cheery red cup with the green Starbucks logo. The religious right went wilder than a tomcat with a tin can tied to its tail.
Minimalism does not play well in the Bible Belt. Honey, they have to have blinking lights and three pounds of glitter before they even voice the first Ho. The next two Hos are totally dependent on Santa kneeling over the manger yard art, enhanced by the entire sequin inventory from the local craft store.
The former head of the Southern Baptist Convention is telling his sheep to boycott Starbucks. He says they need to be outraged by this deliberate affront to Christianity. I have come to the conclusion that outrage substitutes for foreplay in most right-wing homes. How else could there be so damn many of them? They reproduce like rabbits because they spend all day looking for things to be outraged about.
Also, I have zero-nada-nilch idea what reindeer on cups has to do with Little Baby Jesus. And if I did know, I’d try real hard to forget it.
The Southern Baptist guy suggests that if you are forced to go to Starbucks, you should tell your barista that your name is Merry Christmas, because that forces them to write Merry Christmas on your cup. Yeah, because baristas are reasonably reliable spiritual advisors who can solidify your relationship to God with a felt-tip pen.
Here’s hoping that the next Starbucks holiday cup is completely blank and comes with crayons and a jar of paste so that their overly victimized Christian customers can decorate it themselves, like the damn children they are.
There are 38 different religious celebrations during December, so when you get outraged and start a petition or boycott somewhere for not saying Merry Christmas, you are not “defending Christianity.” You are just being a colossal asshole.
You know, I cannot leave without saying something about the Republican candidates for president. Honey, this GOP presidential race is three pounds of foolish in a two-pound sack.
I haven’t chatted about this since Rick Perry dropped out, so I think I can bring you up to speed by simply saying that watching Rick Perry’s second presidential campaign was like watching The Sixth Sense the second time. You already knew he was dead.
Donald Trump and Ben Carson are getting pretty damn close to being sued by the producers of Dumb and Dumber for copyright infringement.
Honey, if Donald Trump said the things he’s said about women and immigrants, he’d be asked to leave Chili’s.
And I don’t care what they say, Ben Carson is no brain surgeon.
Hope your holidays are merry and bright, warm and wonderful. Be sure to hug someone who needs it.
Susan Bankston lives in Richmond, Texas, where she writes about her hairdresser at The World’s Most Dangerous Beauty Salon, Inc., at juanitajean.com.
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