Tuesday, November 14, 2006

So 194 Catholic bishops think I'm disordered. Oh gosh, a bunch of celibate men who like to walk around wearing fancy dresses while magically turning bread and wine into flesh and blood think I'm fucked-up.

Who. Honestly Cares.

I'm sorry, a bunch of nelly boy-fuckers or boy-fucker enablers or boy-fucker wannabees are the last people who should be passing judgement on us faggots. Asamatteroffuckingfact, these Bishops of the Catholic Church, with its long history of Crusades, Inquisitions, forced Conversion, and Oops-I-can't-Believe-It's-A-Holocaust; can just go into their lil confessionals and touch themselves while I tell them how hot that redhead Army sergeant really was and what really happened after my 40th birthday party and what it feels like to be really free and happy and not having to follow some lame rules made up by a bunch of long-dead folks who would like totally freak and burn each other at the stake if they ever saw an airplane, a computer, or my penis.

Did I make myself clear? Groups of queeny-oldsters who obsess so-fucking-much about homosexuals obviously privately wish they were getting man-on-man sex and are just jealous that those of us who are disordered are having better lives than their miserable, closet-case, paranoia-filled "lives."

We now return to our regularly scheduled disordered life.

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