Saturday, October 4, 2014
How to Irritate Gay Republican Southern Baptist Bovines in 400 words or less
I recently mentioned how much I like Chik-Fil-A to a friend. As a gay man, he was appalled that I still support them. As a theoretical gay man, I don’t understand why I am expected to boycott Chik-Fil-A. Why do my gastronomic peccadilloes have to link-up with my sexual orientation, which at this point might as well be “Disinterested former Southern Baptist, looking for clearance-priced Brooks Brothers”? I am not interested in dating anyone of any gender right now.
What I am interested in is enjoying some of those chicken minis for breakfast. Have you eaten one? Now I wasn’t around to taste the manna that God provided the children of Israel back in the day, but it has been described as something akin to a honey flavored wafer. I know chicken minis are probably horrifyingly processed and reek of calories and butter but they are delicious! Chicken minis will be served in heaven, y’all. Seriously. I feel pretty sure Mr. Cathey is setting up a franchise right now. And I hope he is. In heaven, that is; his financial dealings with Jesus are between him and Him. On that note, I recently found out that one of my friends attended church with Robin Williams in San Francisco and his pastor stated at his funeral that he was a Christian, so that makes me happier. I’m glad I’ll see Mork in heaven. Somebody is going to have to balance out all those Republican sour-pusses who assure us they are God’s chosen few.
Plus I like anyone with the last name of Cathey ever since I saw a photo of a Miss Judy Ann Cathey who was some sort of Queen of Queens at some Fiesta of Five Flags or whatever from my mother’s yearbook for the semester she went to Northeast Louisiana State University in 1964. Anything that combines beauty queens and fried chicken is alright by me. This is where an Amen would be appropriate, in case you needed prompting.
Believe what you want to believe and boycott what you want to boycott but keep your opinions out of my mouth; I’ve got enough of my own in there. And I need to leave room for some sweet tea alongside that honey-kissed chicken goodness from the folks that introduced America to poultry-phobic, illiterate cows.
And that is all I’m saying because my food is getting cold.