So Fucking Typical

That is just so fucking typical. Reverend Stephen White, infamous for preaching against homosexuality and sexual promiscuity at Yale and other universities is facing charges of attempting to solicit sex from a teenage boy. White had been well known for his impromptu speeches denouncing minorities, gays, other religious groups that didn’t follow his particular brand of Christianity – and pretty much despised by the liberal communities of every school he visited on his reign of error.

Now, White is being investigated for allegedly giving $20 to a 14-year old boy in Pennsylvania in exchange for oral sex in his van. Reactions from Yale students range from indifference to unrestrained joyful celebration. In a way, it is much better than winning the World Series or any other important sporting event. It is proof once again, that if you give them enough rope, they will hang themselves. Why is it always the ones who protest too much, who project the sanctity of themselves onto those who don’t want to hear it, the people who really need to control the populace, that need to condemn the things they see around them and point fingers, wind up being the worse perps? What is that stupid saying? When you are pointing one finger at someone, there are four pointing right back at you. Judge not, lest ye be judged. Ha ha. Fuck you Stephen White! Child molesters are the worst too. They get killed in jail, they have to register with the communities that they move into – if they survive, they can’t give out candy at Halloween, at least in New York.

This is some Old Testament kind of judgment coming down on people, as in the case of Rush Limbaugh. I keep wondering if Rush is having some type of awakening in rehab, as he probably has at least a week clean now. What if he becomes a total liberal huggy bear, invests a large sum of his earnings as a conservative icon in Ben and Jerry’s, so much they name a flavor after him “Recalcitrant Rush” – Vanilla with hydrocondone chips and an oxycontin swirl running through and through. Then Rush will slip into Greenpeace and become the patron saint of saved water mammals in a XXL tie-dye shirt and a little, tiny, itty, bitty ponytail.

I am trying to contain my own joy at the revelation that White is now forced to face the music, and sing in Sing Sing, but then I wonder what am I all superior about? Biblical lessons abound. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone. Okay. I am winding up, about to pitch. then I am stopped in my tracks. When does my number come up? Who is going to find out the truth about me? Where is the scandal? I am just kind of jealous that I have no big thing to hide, because that does give a person some depth of character. It makes up for the relative tedium of the minutes that go by, measuring the breaths between birth and death. Not that I am going to solicit sex from children or take gargantuan doses of drugs, but there has to be something. I find children incredibly unsexy, having always preferred the company of those much older than myself. I would much rather play the child. I love drugs, but I hate hangovers, and the hatred of the hangover wins by a landslide every time. Plus, I don’t even know what the new drugs are these days, and I don’t want to appear like I am doing anything for the first time.

I suppose it is that revelation that I am kind of boring that is the greatest secret of my life. I leave social functions early, always, intimating that I am going somewhere better, where there are multiple sexual opportunities as well as other sublime debauchery like hot canapés and soft, flattering light, sleepy eyed and sated, decadently low to the ground sprawled out on Morrocan furniture draped in rich velvets and overly pillowed. A faraway opium den populated by rock stars and the nameless beautiful that surround rock’s elite await me, so I must leave your boring dinner party after the main course is served, no offense – I am just too fabulous for your world. The truth of the matter is that I am going home, to walk my dogs, who whine and glower at me for daring to go out in the first place. I slump down in my uncomfortable, smelly couch, pillowless and covered in inch long blond dog hairs and use a Backnobber on the point where my shoulder blade meets the anterior latissimus dorsi on the right side of my body. Then I will take off my expensive dress and ball it up on the floor where the dogs will poke at it with their wet noses, wash my face, letting my water-resistant mascara make big gray splotches underneath my eyes, then I slather my beautifully tended feet with an AHA cream and go to bed without letting my slippery toes touch the floor, allowing my big dog, Ralph, to lick the moisturizer off my face as I fall asleep. People drain me, even the closest of friends, and I find loneliness to be the best state in the union to live in, and yet to remind myself that I am alive, I like to make an appearance, a grandiose one, then leave them wanting – or at least I hope – more. So there you go. I don’t think that I could go to jail or rehab for that, but there is always the possibility.