“. . . and I’m a gay basher . . .”
Beloved PG Friends: I’m sitting in on a meeting of Gay Basher’s Anonymous with – unknown to the bashers – my pocket-size recording device surreptitiously “taking notes.”
I’m disguised as a Gay Basher: sporting a pair of very-pricey Maui Jim sunglasses (sorry, I can’t resist a touch of glamour), and wearing polyester aqua-blue slacks with a forest green, God Hates Fags T-shirt.
Oh, yes: sandals with socks. I’m probably the best dressed bashee here. I hope it doesn’t blow my cool.
(NOTE: For those BTL readers who don’t know about Fundie and Born-Againer outreach programs, “GBA is designed 1) to alleviate guilt of those who by word, deed, or thought have been caught red-handed ‘casting the first stone,’ and 2) to reorient such embarrassed Holy Hurlers in more effective ways, ways less antithetical to passive/aggressive evangelism to win homosexual-by-choice sinners to the redeeming message of heterosexual-by-Christian Missionary Position faith.”
We are sitting in the basement of the Greater New Faith Temple-Church-Cathedral-Tabernacle of God’s Last Days. There are 60 bashers here at ten tables decorated with lilies of the valley, a Scofield Bible with Holy Land picture maps, and a bowl of chocolate-covered, sabbath-blessed Goobers.
For some reason nearly all participants are guys, tho’ Dude — occasionally deep-kneeing me to my immediate right – whispers there are two roller derby “big namer” broads at Step Four Table.
(NOTE: I vouchsafe an opinion under my breath to my tape recorder: “I estimate the collective intelligence at each table is in the neighborhood of IQ 90. My participant-observer presence at Step One Table ups that count by 30 points.”) Private transcription . . .
DUDE: “I knew I had a problem when I became aware that the first thing I wanted to do after church was beat up a homo. The urge just took over my whole life. I found myself spending all my evenings going to gay bars and all my days going to steam baths. I had one thing on my mind. Are you ready for the Rapture? I’d ask.
“I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I twisted a few arms to get what I wanted. But, it was too damn time consuming. Honestly, I suppose I’m getting too old for bar ministry.”
ARTHUR: “I hate to confess it, but six of my seven kids are gay. The seventh is a married cross dresser. I gay bashed by kicking them all out onto the street – which, now that the cost of suburban living has skyrocketed, turns out was a big theological mistake. With my reduced income I can’t tithe to my church like I used to.
“My wife tells me call the black sheep home. What in hell does she know? She’s a consarned feminist Wiccan. Oh, well. Live and learn.”
BRUNO: I loved the sinner and hated the sin in a very special way. I organized block-party gay bash stone ins. Just a few guys after brewskis. No big rocks. Just pebbles, marbles, vegetables, day-old hot-cross buns. At first it was alota laughs. We ‘stoned’ about a – hahahahaha – ‘baker’s dozen’ of fruit-loopers.
“Unfortunately – and that’s why I’m here – we pelted a pastor’s son by mistake. Gawdongit! Who woulda thought . . . You know . . . Come on, who knows he’s faggy at 14?)
ME (Removing my Maui Jims): “I swear I’ll never, NEVER! Gay bash again. Criss cross my heart. I made the mistake of verbally bashing a drag queen. Lady Sybil Stingray was holy terror in high heels. See, I got two black eyes to prove it! Hell hath no fury like a lip-syncing, bingo queen.”