LGBT: Let's Get Behind 'Torum!

As a Santorum supporter, I am commonly asked if I share the candidate’s fear that the legalization of gay "marriage" will lead inexorably to wholesale bestiality and other even more unspeakable perversity. In candour, I do not, but only because the vast majority of Americans now reside in urban and suburban environments in which they rarely encounter the sorts of animals that are good for sex, such as sheep and a couple of the more docile breeds of goat. I do of course accept that once a man has rammed his lubricant-coated procreative organ into another man’s anus, only a fool or so-called progressive would suggest he might have few qualms about ramming it into livestock, just as a woman who has stimulated another woman’s clitoris with her tongue is apt never to look at a stallion in the same way again.

That I don’t believe that homosexuality leads inexorably to bestiality doesn’t mean that I don’t recognise the homosexual's natural promiscuity. We are forever being deluged by stories of so-called gay couples who’ve been together 37 years, since they were sophomores in college, and asked why such a couple isn’t allowed to marry while a secular homosexual like Kim Kardashian or Newt Gingrich is. What’s never mentioned is that over the course of those 37 years, the homosexuals have probably had countless hundreds of affairs between them — not all, as we've seen, with other human beings. Do you suppose they stay at home in the evening, watching Glee with bowlfuls of microwave popcorn? Hardly. They are out dancing to Gloria Gaynor’s I Will Survive at garish discotheques, or wearing different-hued handkerchiefs in their back pockets at leather bars. And on the rare evening that fatigue or illness or lack of cabfare does keep them home, you may be assured it isn’t with popcorn, but with amyl nitrate.

If the homosexual kept his promiscuity to himself, or between him and his countless partners, it would be one thing. But study after study has affirmed that he enjoys nothing more than “turning” a normal Christian young person into a pervert exactly like himself, usually as a way of getting back at the so-called straight world for ridiculing or otherwise bullying him or her in adolescence.

The homosexual commonly prides himself on his taste, but one need look only at his flag to realise that gay tastefulness is an invention of the liberal media; rather than a subtle grey, it garishly contains all colours of the rainbow. Where’s the great tastefulness in being unable to decide on only one, or a complementary pair? When the homosexual does deign to imitate heterosexual style, as during the period when every gay man on earth had short hair and a mustache like Freddie Mercury’s, there’s invariably something palpably ironic about it. The mustache will be rather too carefully trimmed, or the hair too artfully cut. The body odour won’t be the result of honest toil — the homosexual sweats only when at the gym — but a designer fragrance.

You may have heard about something called lipstick lesbians, but the feminine female homosexual too is a creation of the liberal Jewish media. Your genuine lesbian is actually more masculine than most normal heterosexual men, stocky, close-cropped, and with a gait that suggests bellicosity. She enjoys softball and bowling, and reeks of cigarettes and testosterone. She cannot cook or sew, but can plumb. She is no threat to livestock, but for anatomical, and not moral, reasons.

As for the transgendered, it is my belief that no such thing actually exists — though I am of course aware of RuPaul — and that the liberal media dreamed the whole idea up in an attempt to make so-called gays and lesbians seem relatively more palatable. It didn’t work.

Sen. Santorum Solves the Illegal Immigration Problem

There have been been nearly as many proposed solutions to the problem of undocumented aliens pouring into our country looking for low-paying, degrading, and often dangerous work (removing asbestos — that sort of thing) as national politicians. For several years, I favoured the idea of rounding up all the undocumented residents of the country and getting them to join hands along the length of the Mexican border. This would have had the dual benefits of getting them out of our cities and making it difficult for others like them to scurry into Texas and Arizona and so on in dead of night. But I recognise Sen. Santorum’s newly unveiled idea as far superior.

As you probably know, the senator fervently opposes abortion, even when medical science (how I hate even to think that word, let alone type it) is pretty sure that woeful birth defects will be present. In many cases, these defects involve deficient organs. Sen. Santorum’s idea is to offer undocumented aliens amnesty in exchange for access to their and their children’s transplantable organs — their hearts, lungs, kidneys, livers, pancreases, and spleens. In rare cases, as when a real American has been burned or involved in a tragic accident or a war in Afghanistan, they might also be called upon to give up their faces, facial transplantation having accelerated markedly in the 21st century.

We’re forever hearing about how the Mexican, Guatemalan, Honduran, or other who sneaks into the country has done it principally to benefit his or her family. The Santorum plan offers such persons an opportunity to put their money where their mouths are, so to speak. Want a better future for little Dieguito? Allow your ticker to be harvested for implantaion into an actual native American (as in born here, preferably to two white parents, rather than the tomahawk sort) with heart disease.

Speaking of facial transplantation, it’s obviously in its early stages; those who have their faces replaced generally look less alluring than terrifying. In a decade, though, I predict surgeons will have greatly refined the technique, and expect that women and vain men will have their visages changed as casually as they have their breasts enlarged today. Cosmetic surgeons’ reception areas will be filled with plain janes looking through glossy sample books depicting the various looks on offer. In every club and discotheque, there will be multiple Angelina Jolies. The boardrooms of major corporations will be lousy with George Clooney lookalikes.

The great benefit of which is that personality will come to enjoy the paramount importance the parents and other comforters of the plain have long falsely ascribed to it. Nearly everyone will look sensational, so young men will decide in whom to deposit their seed on the basis of how charming or even bright a prospective partner is.

Sen. Santorum and the Sanctity of All Human Life

After church yesterday, my colleagues Earle and I — Jennifer felt she needed to have her fingernails attended to, though they looked fine to me and Earle — travelled to Sniffingham, in the southeast corner of the county, to talk about Sen. Rick Santorum’s compelling conservative vision of the American future with Wally and Deb F—, originally from Fresno, California. The couple repatriated to the UK in 2006 because of their adoration of the music of James Blount, apparently not realising that the singer/songwriter had himself moved to Los Angeles, whose name most Brits are unable or unwilling to pronounce properly; mispronouncing foreign place names is Brits’ second favourite recreation, after alcoholism. Wally works as an author of adult ebooks, while Deb devotes herself to home-schooling their mentally disabled daughter Nancy, whose biological father is the uncaught rapist who lowered the boom on Deb one night in 1998 in the parking lot of the Fresno Stop-n-Spend, where Deb worked as a product demonstrator. Deb believed then what Sen. Santorum has bravely gone on record as believing now — that a child conceived via rape is no less a gift from God than those conceived by a married couple with the lights out in the missionary position, with neither experiencing pleasure beyond that of doing God’s work.

If the sanctity of not-yet-born human life were the only issue, then, the F—s’ vote for Sen. Santorum would be what is commonly called a slam dunk, even though that term comes from basketball, a sport dominated by non-white athletes. But they turned out to have other concerns. Wally, for instance, is troubled by the Senator’s having been endorsed by the late folk rock singer Bono, who is of course very much alive. Given their druthers, in fact, the couple would vote eagerly for Gov. Sarah Palin.

As you can imagine, this revelation caused me no little delightt, as Gov. Palin has no more avid a supporter on the planet than I. But my first priority is of course to help remove from office the Kenyan-born socialist extremist whose idea of sound domestic policy is to redistribute the wealth of hard-working white Americans to swarthy welfare cheats who will use their new riches to buy crack and folk rock CDs and abortions, and at the moment Sen. Santorum seems to be the most viable Republican. On his way out to the garden for a smoke, my colleague Earle shot me a look that said, “I’m well aware you would prefer to rhapsodise about Gov. Palin almost until it’s too late for us to catch our train home, but we must remain on task here,” so I didn’t let on how much I’m secretly hoping that Sen. Santorum and Gov. Romney will be deadlocked going into the big convention in Tampa in August, and that the party will implore Gov. Palin to accept its nomination.

In the end, I was able to persuade each of the F—s to buy a Santorum Brown 2012 badge for £1.50 each. Wally bristled a bit, musing, “So what’s your markup on these bad boys, around a million percent?” I told him I didn’t have the actual figures in front of me, and that I would far sooner have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy, LOL, and urged him to bear in mind that the money would help ensure that future rapists’ children get to enjoy the same chance at life that he and I and Earle and Deb had all had, and he seemed mollified.