Columns » Bob Lancaster

Altar jitters

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The president and other supporters of the amendment to ban gay marriage warned us again last week of the dire consequences if we allow people of the same sex to stand up before God and everybody and say vows.

I tried to keep track of all their predictions, intending to share them here after eliminating the crazier ones by the likes of Fred Phelps and Sen. Jim Holt. I just don’t believe the earth is going to belch forth little horned demons the size of squirrels to overrun our cities, this on account of gay marriage proliferation. I don’t believe gay marriage is part of the long-running plot to corrupt or adulterate or make off with our precious bodily fluids. I don’t believe it’s a reasonable interpretation of anything in the Book of Daniel to prophesy that providential anger over gay marriage is going to make all our genitalia either fall off or dry up and smooth over, the species then petering away in a slow, pitiable jitter of dryhumpery.

A whole lot of such as that was being hollered about and gravely intoned last week. Little kids with two daddies or two mommas and a pinch-hitter over behind the woodpile will surely grow up to be serial killers, and probably Hitler. Herms no longer bound to marry themselves will herm up with others, the consequent foursomes a monstrous tribute to judicial activism. And so forth. But not all the rhetoric attending the first Senate vote on the issue was kookery, and not all the prognostication that came out of the debate was bad science, minced Bible, and stupid butthole yocks. Some of it was real-worldly enough to be entertaining, and the kinder, gentler predictions of marital confusion are the topic for today’s column.

For instance, if gay marriage is normalized, there’s a high likelihood of a pandemic of gay clowns who’ll be squirting straight people with little jets of water from their wedding boutonnieres. They’ll be everywhere, like in the old days when it rained frogs. That knee-slapper was attributed to Sen. Santorum, who really is clinically insane, but I gathered that he was quoting the pope, or thought he was, and that the pope might or might not have been joshing. It certainly sounds like a contemporary papal joshing attempt.

Another prediction I caught in passing on C-SPAN: This red growth that they’ve found at Mount Rushmore — an algae or lichen of some kind — will creep up the famous faces, imparting the appearance of blushing. This is supposed to symbolize national embarrassment over gay marriage, as I understand it. Anyway, the acidic effects of the red creep more and more will give the famous faces an uncanny resemblance to the four main characters of the late TV comedy series “Will and Grace.”


Another: Regulations and licensing as they pertain to married-people’s plumbing will be turned over to Homeland Security, thence to the Federal Emergency Management Agency, in the belief that the matter will there become so bollixed, redtaped, and mismanaged that the gays will just give up, as will also all but the most determined of traditional marriage candidates who will simply adopt the easier policy of living in sin and having bastards.

Another, which I took the liberty of expanding: As gay marriage becomes an everyday occurrence, so too will cloning — with plants and animals at first, so that at stock shows like the Arkansas Livestock Exhibition you’ll have, like, 400 heifers, identical in every detail and particular, all competing for the same prize. What are the judges supposed to do, get a blowtorch and cut the trophy into 400 little jagged pieces of metal? Imagine judging a thousand Red Duroc porkers, every one with the same curl in the tail, scrutinizing in vain for the decisive blue-ribbon genetic mutation.

Yeah, I thought, but when cloning gets to the school band level, don’t you know we’ll see some hellaciously good majorette lines?

Other gay-marriage predictions, from morons I know, from the Arkansas Hold ’em Poker Roundtable, from the Bud Bradley Memorial Table at the House of Dominoes:

• We’ll be forbidden to tell our servants that they’ll have to go around to the back door or rear entrance. We’ll only be allowed to nod in the direction and say “yonder.”

• Only gay couples will be allowed to read their children fairy tales at bedtime.

• Children from gay marriages watching Mr. Rogers reruns and listening to his song with the verses “I’d like to be just like my dad, he’s handsome and he’s keen, he knows just how to drive the car and buy the gasoline,” and “I’d like to be just like my mom, she’s pretty and she’s nice, she knows just how to cook the food and make things out of rice” will be obliged to choose just one of the verses and sing along with it twice.

• Bitchslapping galore during the bouquet tosses.

• Squabbles over who carries whom over the threshold when bride and groom are roughly the same size, strength and sex.

There was way too much of bawdy, tasteless stuff about who would wear the garter and around what.

My own concern: It’ll become just about impossible to get into the Pottery Barn.

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