Saturday, May 14, 2022

Don't Say Gay in My House!

(By Cyril Blubberpuss, Conservative-American)
We say, "militantly proactively supportive." At least that's what my baby brother, Cecil, opts for, especially when he's watching middle school boy's wrestling matches on the local cable trust. (He's taped every one, going back to 1987, proving what a strapping, athletically-minded, red-blooded American male he is.)
   This generation of Blubberpusses is, dare I say, more progressive than the previous generation. Everything changed after Stonewall, I guess, which happened when I was a strapping lad of 17, myself, and just going through the first phase of male pattern baldness. Even so, our family's evolution from rabidly homophobic to nauseously tolerant was a slow one.
   Right around the time of Stonewall, my ears still rang with the stories told by my late father, Ambrose, who regaled me with tales about Roy Cohn, who was then the chief legal counsel for Senator Joe McCarthy, the greatest Republican senator ever to come out of Appleton, Wisconsin after 1907. 
     "My boy," Father Ambrose once said to me on my 13th birthday, "I knew the minute I laid eyes on that mincing little shark that he had quaffed and quaffed deeply of the manly essence, perhaps even the great Senator's." Of course, I had no idea what he was talking about at that tender age but when he told the same stories to Cecil when he himself had turned 13, somehow my baby brother understood perfectly and wanted to know more about Mr. Cohn's sexual peccadilloes.
 Cecil, working up a sweat watching the state JV wrestling finals in 2017.
     It was the year after Mr. Cohn's death in 1986 that Cecil began taping prepubescent boys wrestling each other in some, I guess, homage to Mr. Cohn's Republican legacy?
     Anyway, his lifelong devotion to Mr. Cohn, whom my friend President Donald Trump, a former client, once called "that pink cigar smoker", my kid brother Cecil had devoted his life to, if not actively participating it, certainly championing the accomplishments of those not old enough to grow pubic or facial hair.

     Not to be outdone, his niece, my baby daughter Bertha, is more proactive in her athletic ambitions. She proved that in spades after finishing her stint as a star linebacker on the Columbia University's men's football team (during which she gave concussions to no less than three tight ends and eight wide receivers) by running away to join the Bulgarian women's Olympic weightlifting team.
     Sadly, her aspirations were cut short after an international diplomatic incident that had begun in the women's locker room in Tokyo. It took all my family's connections to extricate her from that heroic endeavor, even if the Bulgarian women's team sheepishly admitted that Bertha could out-lift any of the ladies on the team plus a few on the Bulgarian men's team.
   Anyway, my family's devoted interest in sports notwithstanding, my point is that we in the Blubberpuss household are somewhat aggrieved and concerned at the Don't Say Gay bill that was signed into law by Florida Governor Ron DeSantis and the raft of investigations into the parents of transgender teens in Texas that support them in their lifestyle choices.
    While we staunchly cling to our heterosexuality (although it can't be said Bertha and Cecil wear theirs on their sleeves. My baby brother and little girl are not liberal virtue-signalers), we realize we have to roll with the times, even if the homosexual agenda would love to roll with us manly men in the sack.
     The days are now, sadly, gone when rich, famous men like my friend, Donald, can grab women by their genitalia with impunity and sleep with porn stars for up to a year then pay them off with a generous $130,000 gratuity on the road to well-deserved, ultimate power. The times, they are a'changing, as Ted Nugent once said.


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