Religion

I’m just so very much not hysterical about Notre-Dame de Paris

let’s burn the rest of them down, too.


an image of Notre Dame on fire, with the rose window superimposed and the words "ora pro nobis', "pray for us."
Please don’t pray for us.

Yes, gentle readers, today’s theme is “disasters, real or imagined” and to kick off, I must apologize for my absence from these bloggy parts during the last few weeks. You know how much I crave your attention, and the very quickest among you will therefore deduce that only the very choicest disasters Contents: One Acme Premium Fuck-Up (keep refrigerated until use) would prevent me from lying naked on my front lawn, under the ever-judgmental eye of Joyleen, Timbercreek’s Tenant Total-Compliance Manager and unofficial red-hot mama, and wallowing in it.

Well, right you be, and this particular chunk of premium personal disaster, which thudded into my life like a chocolate-covered cluster of Santa’s leftover coals, managed to glom together:

The calculator-wielding gremlins of the Canada Revenue Agency, who for some reason has wanted my response concerning six years of unfiled taxes, and for which I have apparently discarded all of my receipts and records, and resorted to the sleazy low-ball strategy of assessing me at over forty-thousand owing, garnisheeing my pension then freezing my bank account;

And the task of placating and managing two pissed off potential roommates, pissed off because I promised the room to a new one, then got cold feet and backtracked, promising to continue renting my room to the current one, then changed my mind again and promised it for real to the second one, then backtracked again and sort of, kind of, promised both of them that they’d probably overlap and it would work out OK for a month, though secretly wishing the first one would storm off in a huff and solve my problem for me.

So you see how all this could sideswipe one’s delicate creative process.

I will not spare you the update, which goes:

I am finally preparing my delinquent tax returns, aided by my long-suffering buddy, a former corporate tax lawyer, who has taken his duties so much to heart that he is literally gasping for breath during our phone meetings and bombarding me every minute with over-determined, lengthy text messages about the exact percentage of my bedroom that can be used as a business expense but only during neap tide and in years that are divisible by three, and saying huggy stuff like, “You might be in serious trouble!” so that my brains plop out of my ears in chunks, like boiled cauliflower, with the stress. Check!

And what was the other one again?

Of course, the roommates: I figure I’ll just let them both believe they’re exclusive occupants of the room, set up a webcam on June first and sell tickets to my new reality show on YouTube. Because they can’t hate me any more than I already do. Can they?

Oh, yeah—I think someone, I have no idea who, has the keys to my apartment. It’s always good to keep a potential disaster in your back pocket, just in case life starts jumping in the puddles and singin’ in the rain.

Nip that in the bud!

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I am constantly reminded that there are some goals I won’t achieve, qualities that will elude me no matter who I pay or what I practice; and though it makes no difference what the cause might be, you can blame it, if you like, on brain cells now walking with canes or too many distracting, shiny objects in my field of vision.

One of these elusive qualities is relevance.

In case you haven’t been paying attention, or have just wandered in by mistake while searching online for a homemade poultice that will improve your bad temper, know this: I will never be relevant.

Waiting for timely commentary from me is like being bathed in the attenuated light of a supernova that exploded two billion years ago, around the time that we were single-celled plankton just beginning to figure out how to torture each other and smirking behind the reinforced windows of our gated plankton communities at the plankton wannabes, the plankton rapists and murderers, the hungry and undeserving plankton, and above all the loser plankton who didn’t realize they were supposed to be born rich plankton and thought they’d just rely on the kindness of algae.

Didn’t work then. Doesn’t work now.

So it happens that I am the last lonely voice in the blogosphere responding to the supposed catastrophe that is the loss of the roof—the roof, mind you— of Notre Dame de Paris, that saucy little French tramp of medieval cathedrals. This disaster, I will add, resulted in the loss of not one single life, which, let’s be honest, is kind of major underachieving for the Catholic church. You’re not going to win hearts and minds with that kind of complacency, Holy Fathers! Take those choirboy dicks out of your mouths and focus!

For if this, the loss of just a centuries-old roof and some resulting bruised French egos, is a disaster, what should we call the religion that caused Notre Dame to be built?

Here’s a “religion of love” whose First Crusade alone was responsible for over a million “infidels” slaughtered—who knows what the numbers might be when we reckon with the extirpation of pagans and “heretics” (by the Inquisition, who put Galileo under permanent house arrest and executed Giordano Bruno); those slain during four crusades, the “witches” burned at the stake, the toll from religious wars, the forced conversion and genocide of native peoples and Jews?

The Holocaust alone, at six million victims, is beyond comprehension, and that is only a drop in the bucket of the atrocities committed in the name of Christianity and its hippy-haired, anemic Prince of Peace.

Think of those souls lost to us: the artists, writers, scientists and philosophers who never walked the earth and whose genius might have transformed our destiny beyond recognition. Think of the brilliant ideas snuffed out, the awful silence which sublime music might have electrified. Think of the great loves, the life-changing friendships, the Alexanders and Hephaestions, the John Cages and Merce Cunninghams, that never happened.

So, I ask you, why? Why the great affection for and allegiance to this Shriners’ convention of maniacs? Why the weeping and wailing from Parisians who cannot all of them, I reckon, have attended Mass that regularly, practiced what was preached, or successfully avoided coveting their neighbour’s wife, ox, Renault or Le Creuset enameled bakeware?

Yes, Notre Dame is an iconic landmark, but so is the Chernobyl exclusion zone. And at least land denuded and rendered sterile by a nuclear meltdown doesn’t peel your skin off in shreds while telling you it’s for the sake of your everlasting soul.

Denuded land wouldn’t delude itself like that.

Some argue that, despite its little failings like mass murder, the Church was at least a repository of “knowledge” during the Dark Ages. True enough, if you don’t care whether your knowledge contains any facts, and if you put high store on the ability to illuminate manuscripts or to determine the number of angels on the heads of pins. But in that case priests were nothing more than a class of scribes, which would have existed in some form or another; and besides, the Renaissance replaced the weird fairy tales of Scholasticism with its revival of Classicism and its change of direction towards the observable, the logical and the open-ended.

The truly useful and advanced knowledge that had existed in the classical world—that the Earth was round and even the measurement of its circumference; the engineering marvels of aqueducts; knowledge of crop rotation and irrigation—had already been swallowed up by Europe’s collective amnesia. All the Church provided was more classy busy work, the single approved pastime of the era that didn’t involve creative use of cow dung or lancing boils.

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The French must be forgiven for their utter lack of dignity around the Notre Dame fire. They spend so much time worrying about the purity of their culture and not bathing that they end up a little low on genetic variety and a little high on insecurity and neediness.

They over-react a tad.

They suspect, rightly, that they are mostly crashing bores who distract us with eye-popping fashion, caloric desserts and post-structuralism. These are all fairly useless finials on the curtain rod of culture, but hey. One secret of success is to get there first and write all the rules, taking care to ensure that the rules highlight your strengths.

The primary French strength is writing, then following, the rules.

Not for the French that messy, roll-up-your-sleeves, in-for-a-penny-in-for-a-pound British amateurism, that let’s have a go, make do or mend, it’ll all come out in the wash attitude with the lashings of ginger beer and the hearty slaps on the back.

No way. The French are not on board with a bit of cello tape and a bobby pin and who cares as long as it works; the French would not conceive of baking croissants at home, or attempting a five-star Michelin dinner. Too much is at stake, and if the result cannot match the original, why make the attempt? Muddling through just for the fun of it is simply not a thing.

Take the French Revolution, for example. They can’t just have a nice unruly protest, get some concessions, hire back the useless aristocracy to run their former stately homes as care-taking staff and costumed tour guides and then be done with it. Oh, no.

The French are either/or thinkers, rigorous intellectuals, and once the aristocracy are brought low and thoroughly humiliated, the revolutionaries must rewrite the rules. They will wipe the slate clean, and in its place substitute a new and perfect society, which just happens to be more rigid and intolerant than the one it replaced.

Rules, in other words, rules and perfection, enforced by the new tyrant who used to wash your underwear or resole your clogs, will replace the concept of justice.

That episode is affectionately known as “The Terror.”

For perfection is all very well and commendable when it’s Fauchon: Rows of exquisite concoctions in a bakery window with every dollop of ganache glossy as lacquer, icing sugar stenciled just so and a platoon of strawberries standing identically at attention.

Not so great when your tendency to perfectionism leaves the pâtisserie and runs amok in the real world, building instruments of torture and preparing concentration camps. Society’s perfection is a fascist fantasy, populated with happy workers and rosy-cheeked peasants whose memories have been wiped clean and replaced with the party line; perfection must cram many-faceted, multifarious human beings into an assembly line of identical, dutiful square pegs, and truth reverts to the medieval format, “because I say so.”

Fascism can be understood as turbocharged bureaucracy, with electrodes as back-up when computer says no fails. And the French are the ultimate bureaucrats. They’ll guillotine a cartload of nuns as soon as look at ya if the civil code says atheism’s the flavor of the month (renamed and shoehorned into the calendar like an ugly sister’s foot into a Louboutin pump), for they apply the same exacting standards to their citizens as they do to their pastries.

Then, like, just throw it all out and another king.

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Muddling through or perfection? The English, muddlers from way back, developed a free-wheeling, uncodified system of common law, law created on the fly by judges, and by which future judges would be bound—so long as the facts of the case were similar.

This puts great store on the judiciary as the source of law and justice, and the idea that we would limit the discretion of judges is one we find suspect (think of how offended we are at the rigid “three strikes” laws and minimum sentencing guidelines of the United States).

We even developed a second discretionary system, the law of Equity, to rectify the inevitable injustices that might occur by applying precedent.

To keep everything ship shape we enshrine top-level concepts—inalienable rights and freedoms— in a constitution or charter, and trust judges to interpret the law according to these principles. Constitution above statute, above equity, above common law. Two systems of discretion, but ultimately trumped by codes and charters.

Quel horreur! Discretion! Interpretation! Where are the rules?

The French opted for a civil code, a nailing down of law, much like the Constitutional originalists in the States would like to nail down its meaning strictly according to “original intent” of the Founding Fathers—slave owners and misogynists and “well-meaning” perpetrators of native genocide in a pre-technological society.

Similarly, Republicans would like effectively to do away with judicial discretion simply by stacking the Supreme Court with right-thinking, pun intended, judges. This ensures that any possible discretion will be the correct, pre-determined flavor.

And this brings us to Québec’s Bill 21, “An Act respecting the laicity of the State.”

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Bill 21 could be considered the province of Québec’s version of the medieval sumptuary laws, which set out what colors and textiles might be worn only by the aristocracy, and what was permitted to the peasants.

Bill 21 hides its true intent behind a veil of equality and religious freedom, while banning any form of religious expression by anyone in a public service job, and especially anything that covers the face. This applies equally should you present yourself to receive a service and need to be identified.

In effect, it bans clothing. Clothing. A law that dictates what you can and cannot wear.

By a neat coincidence, these face-covering religious symbols just happen to be worn only by Muslim women, which leaves them with a distinctly oppressive choice: Follow their religion by quitting their jobs and staying at home, or venture out in public and break the law, subjecting themselves to the disapproving glances of the “pure laine” (“pure wool”, meaning direct descendants of the original French settlers in the province).

Forgive me if I recoil ever so slightly at the concept of “purity” raised in tandem with race or heritage, and if the means to achieve “freedom of conscience and freedom of religion” is applied selectively.

(In theory, the ban also extends to turbans worn by Sikhs, but by a twisted, obscure logic these particular non-whites, being males, are spared the spotlight: Partly because they’re non-white and therefore don’t really merit the attention, partly because turbans don’t cover the face to render the wearer anonymous, and partly because—well, they’re men, and we don’t want to push our luck, you know?)

It is the business of the state, the Act declares, to maintain a secular society, and this means that certain public expressions of religion are banned. These are, apparently an intolerable intrusion on the sensibilities of the non-religious.

Of course. This is why the good, secular people of Québec make like so many Nosferatu’s and shield their tormented vampire eyes from the sight of church steeples; and should those church doors be open on a Good Friday, I plug my ears against the invasive assault of the St Matthew Passion of Bach, which must threaten my very sanity, not to mention I keep bumping into lamp posts and parked cars because of the sensory deprivation.

This is why I welcome the burning of Notre Dame de Paris, and my only regret is that some snowflake apparently called the fire brigade in an act of wishy-washy accommodation.

Is our inalienable freedom respected, by default, by non-intervention? Or is freedom state suppression to prevent offence? If so, whose offence will take precedence?

For your answer, I suggest you look to the graven image of a naked man nailed to a cross, an object which holds pride of place above the chair of the Speaker of the Québec National Assembly and has done so for nearly eighty-four years. This crucifix was affixed in its current position by Maurice Duplessis, the conservative premier of the time, in 1936, around the same time he first referred to the Assembly as “Le Salon de la race;” that is, the Assembly of the pure French.

But isn’t this a religious symbol intruding in an intolerable manner on the secularity, the “laicity” (a word straight from Revolutionary rhetoric) of the state?

Not at all, for Chapter 4, Section 16 of Bill 21 states:

This Act must not be interpreted as affecting the emblematic or toponymic elements of Québec’s cultural heritage, in particular of its religious cultural heritage, that testify to its history.

Assemblée nationale du Québec, Bill 21, “An Act respecting the laicity of the State,” 14.6

In other words, we are white and we are Catholic, we are descendants of white Catholics, we are pure laine, and the crucifix is part of our history, not a religious symbol.

Crisse de tabarnac, ça c’est fucké!

Look to another bill, Bill 62, the “religious neutrality” bill put forth by Québec Justice Minister Stéphanie Valée and passed in 2017. This provided that women wearing the niqab or burka would have to request and be granted official accommodations to access any of hundreds of public services, from bus rides to libraries to health care, or be forced to unveil. Vallée explained that such accommodations would have to be considered on a case-by-case basis, and precedent would not be created by any accommodations granted. The Québec Superior Court suspended this particular section of the bill twice, pending a legal challenge

This is neither neutrality nor justice. This is an aggressive act of racism and religious intolerance. This is not truth. This is the argument from authority, because I say so.

This is fascism.

If we want to perfect society, it is obvious that we will have to admit whose perfection we’re talking about; admit that these bills have nothing to do with religion, but with race: with protecting Québec’s pure, white wool.

Pure laine. In my mind, that phrase conjures up an inescapable and chilling vision of the pure white hoods that veil the faces of the Ku Klux Klan.

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Le salon de la race ~

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In which I make nice to evangelical Christians…

…to Louis C.K., not so much.

HAPPY NEW YEAR. Welcome to the dank, stinking, deep-webbed birth of two thousand nineteen C.E., the year born with a widow’s peak and with swastika-black cat-eyes wide open; the year that explodes from the belly already signed-up for Uber and deploying its influential personal brand. Two thousand nineteen is the malevolent offspring of The Storm who can read the runes, divine the sinister intent in the charred bones and slippery entrails of a former President’s funeral…

…Look! as the playback enters digital slo-mo and we zoom in on Laura’s face, hard and expressionless as stone. She turns with unnerving calm toward George, her downward glance at his right hand spun out to thousands of frames per second; he passes into her left hand an assassin’s final message… 

…White envelopes. In every shot, members of the congregation are handling large, sealed, white envelopes…

…A specialist commentator reads body language, like a sportscaster: Obama’s bored; Clinton’s agitated; Trump’s the only one engaged. She’s right, it seems, but Trump is simply projecting his fascination with his own inner dialog; he’s wondering who’s next he can sack or screw…

What is in the white envelopes? God, what is it?

What’s in the envelope? What is the most obvious supplement, at a state funeral, to the souvenir program and the hymnal? In the wacko world of The Storm, there’s a white envelope, but what is in it? What must it contain?

“Child pornography,” of course: Our sad, lonely epoch’s psychopathic fantasy, its omnipresent allegory of the unspeakable and the uncontrollable.

Child porn—which undeniably exists, but not, as hysteria would have it, around every corner or as a constant given in the lives of our enemies—like the “satanic ritual abuse” of the 80’s, is our generic catch-all for the worst and our ultimate smear tactic, our most indelible stain. It is Medea’s hideous gift of poison coat and coronet that adhere to the flesh and boil it off the bones.

Our desire to stain—someone, anyone, signals our outraged helplessness and our unbounded paranoia. Our innocence, which is to say our trust, has been violated; we have no one to turn to; we sense we can never be as before. Our acting-out is a cry for help not from, or even about, children, but from ordinary, once-sane adults, from you, your neighbours, relatives and friends.

We’re all reduced to faceless confused casualties, wandering in and out of shiny dioramas constructed for our distraction. We’re eaten alive: our most banal secrets pimped out for ready cash, our daily routines surveilled and mapped to the millimeter.

Our thoughts and even our dreams take only the tightly circumscribed, brightly lit paths offered to them, rat mazes continuously reconfigured by the insidious soul-snatchery of THE DEVICE.

And someone must pay.

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WELCOME to another year in which Parkland’s traumatized students, their teen years abducted then wiped out by the goons of the NRA, continue their quixotic battle for gun-control and try to recall anything of life in the time before, the time when their lives were ordinary kids’ lives, with no dangers more serious than turf toe, a fight with your best friend, the awkwardness of a first kiss.

For their efforts they are mocked by sad-sack dirt-bag comedian Louis C.K., who asks rhetorically, in his new comedy routine, if they think having survived a mass shooting makes them “interesting.”

No, Louis, in fact they’re the only ones in the room who aren’t thinking of themselves or their image. They’re trying to extract what paltry healing or meaning they can from the spilt blood and torn bodies of their lost classmates.

They’ve put aside their private grief to work for the common good of all Americans—even you, Louis. The beauty of what they are doing breaks my heart. They are doing the work that adults have abandoned.

Unrepentant adults, derelict in their duty, were too busy concocting puerile, self-serving fantasies to safeguard their vulnerable children, and instead sent them to school, blind, deaf and dumb, innocent as snow, to be bloodied by bullets, sacrifices on the stone of their stupidity.

To honor the Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States of America, to propitiate its gods, to affirm its overriding, universal importance, children had to die. They had to.

American life is a lottery: A madman gets a gun; Kids die. You win some, you lose some. This is— just the way it has to be.

The teens of Parkland are doing what no teen should ever have had to do.

They are making, Louis, the changes that you are too limp to effect, impotent as you are with the pathetic, needy impotence of the flasher. The extent of your comic genius is to diminish their hope, ridicule their bravery and discount their terrible rite of passage, to spit your contempt. You’re revealed not as a fiery preacher of intellectual freedom but as an angry, bitter flop. No, Louis, it’s you who wants to be “interesting.”

Instead, you’ve revealed yourself as a rapist: a rapist who uses words to violate his victims instead of his cowed flesh-puppet, but whose mind is every bit as guilty as if he’d pinned them down until he’d finished.

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RECENTLY I STARTED a new daily regime that involves, as its core feature, acknowledgement of the existence of people other than myself.

You know, and can I just say, seriously: It’s been hell.

This all developed from my attempt to figure out, via highly structured, in-depth research, why more people weren’t paying attention to me. Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar if it doesn’t turn out that if you pay more attention to people, they pay more attention to you.

I was fortunate enough to quite randomly pay attention to Mark Landry, whose blog is at Peacehacks.com, and he in his turn, as God is my witness, paid attention to me—just as the Newtonian Law of Blog Attraction predicted.

Then I discovered—in-depth, remember—that he was, and that his blog was targeted to, evangelical Christians.

Ah, yes. Evangelicals. Nineteen sixty-nine marked the riotous start of gay rights at the Stonewall Tavern, and subsequently that new visibility of the gay sub-culture that was like having all our protective camouflage ripped off and being herded into a clearing, ready for the Evangelicals’ open season. And the buttoned-down but very burned-up Anita “Come to the Florida Sunshine Tree” Bryant, as fellow freshman fag-seniors will recall, was perfectly positioned to light the straw at the foot of the stake as Christ’s perky, big-haired Joan of Arc.

Bryant was so effective in her noxious anti-gay crusade that—true story—every fag and every fag bar in North America boycotted Florida orange juice, thereby getting her fired from the Florida Citrus Commission’s ad campaign and utterly destroying any tiny remaining flicker of social cachet that still dangled from the tiara of the Screwdriver, nature’s own breakfast cocktail.

Save Our Children was the slogan of Bryant’s campaign, a once-whispered sentiment now finally heard loud and clear. She was adamant that gay men were out to recruit the young ‘uns and instruct them in our deplorable lifestyle, a toxic untruth that still, sixty years later, blazes barely contained under the surface of the discussion, like the Centralia mine fire of homophobia.

I don’t know if Bryant is dead, yet, but I’m definitely not. On peacehacks.com I gingerly offered my two nickels (inflation) on a post by Mark in which he had suggested his fellow Christians should get with the program and stop vilifying the caravan of Central American desperate and poor. (“Heaven is a gated community!” one gentleman offered; I didn’t check to see if he worked for ReMax or was offering time-share.)

Mark responded to my comment in a way that made me feel completely right and even appreciated for having participated. Later in the day I noticed that he had visited my blog and commented in his turn. Within minutes, I’d received his friendly invitation to write an article for his blog. You can see the results online.

So, pay attention to others and they’ll pay attention to you. I know it seems like desperately uncongenial work, filling in for people’s laziness in not completely re-ordering the universe to put you at the centre.

But it’s all we have.

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» Read my essay on grace, compassion and the power of non-judgment, “Pivot Chords,” on peacehacks.com

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Big Gay Pope David : Let the healing begin!

Hey Francine! BFF♥!!! Lookin' good girl!! (He just won't listen to me about the white-on-white thing. Let. it. GO!)

The Other Pope,  Francine!  Shout-out!! BFF♥!!!   Lookin’ good, girl!! (He just won’t listen to me about the white-on-white thing.)

A great big Hail Mary, Hello Alice to all my flock of gay dudes, lesbian dudettes and those who have not yet found The Way, The Truth and The Lifestyle™!  This is Big Gay Pope David, your “host with the most Host”! ™

You didn’t hear?  Well, yes indeed, my fine feathered friends, and in case you missed the smoke signals, I’ve just elected myself Big Gay Pope, which can only mean one thing –

Brunch!!

I’ve spent the last twelve hours at The Golden Griddle, blowin’ a few Hallelujah clouds of glory with Francine and some of the other local trannies while we brainstorm best practices for framing apologies, re-framing our prejudices and winning back the trust of “The Gays”.

Don’t you just go all shivery when I call us that?!  “The Gays”.  Admit it!

You may be wondering about certain impediments to my being Pope.  Oh ye of little faith!. Yes, it’s true, I am a practising homosexual. But Francine (BFF!!! ♥) says that’s OK – I just have to keep practising and practising until I get it right!!!

Kidding!!!  LOL !!! Big Hugs ♥!!  Love you guys!!!  In a Big Gay Pope-y way of course!

And guess what else?  Shhh!!! Secret!!!  Francine says the apology portfolio is mine!    So me and that annoying dove that keeps flapping around, you know, with the circle of gold rays emanating from its head, we’re gonna get that apology bit between our teeth and knock it right outta the ballpark!

Oh lord, I beseech thee – heal my metaphors!

Kidding!! Love you guys!! Big kiss, no tongue!!!

luscious lavori

Luigi, one of my team of luscious, hand-picked lavoratori, on his cappuccino break!  Ciao, bellissimo!!

But first, a couple of urgent, as opposed to important, tasks – top priority is whipping my hand-picked team of luscious half-naked lavoratori into shape as they slap some cheerful Debbie Travis pastels on that, and pardon my French, but, totally OTT,  fucked-up Sistine Chapel ceiling.

Sistine Chapel! As Francine likes to say, “Oi ve voy!!” which is Latin for “talk about gloomy!”.

You know, here at the Palace of Popery it’s all S & M, all the time, but hey, Vatican – change your pace, no disgrace!  How about a little gnocchi-naughtiness for us vanilla girls?  Seriously??  After all, you know what they say:

“The religious classes
avoid those masses
where all they can see is
Michelangelo’s asses!”

It took a bit of convincing, but after a heated brainstorm with Joshua bar Joseph I chose ‘Crucifixion’ Chartreuse edged with ‘Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me’ White. So when the ceiling’s done, and Debbie says it’s gonna need at least three or four coats, there’s the swag curtains – I’m thinking moss or maybe taupe – some “faithful flock” wallpaper, and a disco ball, obviously, for a little altarnative – geddit – nostalgia!

big gay sistine

Work proceeds apace on the Sistine Chapel refresh – devout yet cheerful! Shown:  “Crucifixion Chartreuse” edged with “Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me White”.

I tell ya, once my Intelligent Redesign is complete, this place is gonna scream ‘devout-yet-cheerful’ from here to Des Moines!

The second task is spritzing a little spiritual Agent Orange worldwide to completely defoliate all that shrubby homophobia, ’cause I’m sorry to have to tell ya, but those friggin’ Evangelical Protestants are at it again.

Evangelicals!!  Not a flicker of humor in a clapboard chapel full of you!   Church-going isn’t supposed to be like attending the annual reunion of the Hillary for President campaign, you hear what I’m saying?

Methodists!  Oi ve voy!! Hillary’s the kind of girl who’d sit in Grade 9 biology class with a box of tissues on her desk, vivisecting a frog with one hand and blowing her nose with the other, and telling everyone to shush. It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work now!

All good practice for freshman year at college, when she entered the charity swimsuit competition then spent an hour in the Green Room sitting on a wicker chair! Downersville!

Which is just your li’l freckle-faced Big Gay Pope rascal gently suggesting to Evangelicals—take a tip from us Cat-lickers, have a little confidence – pizzazz, even! –  and think Broadway musical!

You know, and could I just say, but really. How about some clouds of incense, or a few of those plastic Jesus statues that wink at you – a couplea nuns with guitars – turn some Wonder Bread into the Body of Christ, make it live up to its name!  Up your game a little!

I say this with love, which gives me just the tiniest stirring of a woody, because maybe- and don’t get upset – but maybe with a bit of quality distraction you wouldn’t, like—get all full of yourselves and start imagining people were taking you seriously.

There, I said it.  I mean, I’m sorry, and as Big Gay Pope I should probably soften the blow. But hey.

Anyway,  there I was, reading Francine’s piece on MSN, about how gay people are finally going to get some apologies, and maybe a box of Laura Secord “Turtles” and a Metropass – fingers crossed!! –  for all of the thousands of years of genocide and persecution and hypocrisy and child abuse and unspeakable torture and all that.

You know, “Catholic Outreach”.

And I was getting in the groove, thinking about how I might actually travel north of Bloor Street now, and then I saw them – not just Protestants –

Twat-estants!  Evangelicals!  With their Lakes of Fire and their “One Way” and, well, just listen to our wee Scottish-ly-named homophobe Charles here:
msn-fucking-weirdos-e1467279139713

“The end of days is closer than you think… and as the Pope, you are wrong to ask forgiveness of Gays.  Do you think that God will be a forgiving God.  Maybe you should read the Bible again.”

Would you get a load of that!  Telling the Pope to read the Bible!  I called Francine right away on her hotline to tell her, and she was like, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

So there was nothing for it but to roll up my hand-embroidered Balenciaga sleeves and compose my very first encyclical – that’s Big Gay Pope for “bitchslap” –  and in fluent Scottish, so Charles will be sure to understand!  – Miracolo! miracolo! – Thanks, annoying dove with the circle of gold rays!


June 28th, Year One

The Big Gay Pope David His First Encyclical

Signed, sealed and bitch-slapped from the
Ruby-Encrusted Honeymoon Suite of the Blessed Jacuzzi
Vatican Hilton

To Charlene and all my overly earnest sad-sack flock

Inasmuch as

I, His Royal Majesty Big Gay Pope David is moved by the annoying dove with the circle of gold rays to speak to ye – and if ye’re too Protestant to get me drift, it’s like, I’m not just “la crème de la crème”, I’m Miss Jean fuckin’ Brodie herself, OK? –

I hereby exhort ye all

to prick up those ears, cause the Communion wine is startin’ to wear off and I’m losin’ me Job-like patience!

This is a matter of extreme urgency, which is why I decided not to just text you “Sup dude?” from the blessed jacuzzi, but to write to you on priceless vellum with a real quill pen, and what’s more, I “Nair”‘d me legs. That alone should tell ye something!

I’m just gettin’ the feel for this pontiff-y stuff – and to tell you god’s truth the robes are startin’ to ride up me crack – so forgive me if I’m blunter than a pair of lamb shears on Maundy Thursday, but Christ Almighty, lad!

I just read yer post on MSN and I have to tell ye, yer makin’ me all nervy with yer dour tone and yer evangelical ways, angry god this and brimstone that, and tellin’ me to read the Bible!

Well it’s a serviceable book, I grant ye, but yer takin’ it so close I’m beginnin’ to think you want me wee job!

Now I’m only going to pontificate this once: Take that oatcake out o’ yer arse if ye can manage to find it, let yer soul flounce out of it’s dark hidin’ place and – speakin’ now not as a Big Gay Pope, but as bonny lad to bonny lad – flip up yer sporran, waggle yer haggis and have a wee bit o’ fun with the boys afore ye croak, hen!

By the hairy balls o’ Christ, Charlie, it’s all a big fuckin’ leg-pull!

There, now I hope yer feelin’ a bit more pastoral and all that.  If ye be needin’ a prayer or a votive candle with a picture of me and Jesus on it, or just something tasteful for the home like a refurbished choirboy, be in touch with the Vatican adoption services gift shop. You’ll be glad ye did once the cold winter nights close in on those bloody Hebrides!

Hail, Mary!   Pope David loves ye!  Big kiss, no tongue!  LOL!!

Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma ..
Salvatore ferragamo genoa via roma …