
Being a puritanical scold is difficult work, even for Timmy Graham, and not just because it cuts into cupcake time, but because sometimes one can spend hours looking for an uncovered nipple or a primetime utterance of “fuck” and come up empty handed, particularly during the holidays. Oh, but wait, lookie here, Timmy says to himself as he wipes the fudge icing off his cheeks and notices a WaPo article on teh gay. “There must be something here,” he thinks, “for me to get all blustered up about.” And there is!
So what did Timmeh find? Well, for starters, the WaPo article resorts to that typical mainstream media trick of overcounting gays. There aren’t 25,000 gays in Fairfax County, Virginia, Timmy huffs. And he should know — he’s been looking for a few gays in Fairfax Country himself and so far has only found 3 or 4, mostly in shopping mall restrooms and behind rest stops.
(If you don’t think that Timmy has likely been on the down low, watch this video. You don’t even need gaydar to pick up on the fact that Timmy buys Men’s Health just for the pictures. I mean this guy could lisp the word “banana.”)
And, of course, the article in question doesn’t spend enough time interviewing folks in Virginia whose idea of a good time would be to go into a gay bar, wrastle up a few queers, tie ’em to their pickups, and drag ’em down the road a few miles. But Timmy reserves his highest dudgeon and his firmest pearl necklace clutching for the article’s “inept religious metaphor.” You know, it’s a steep and slippery slope from inept religious metaphors to public fucking in Starbucks.
The inept religious metaphor came in comparing Virginia to DC:
Historically, of course, the center of gay nightlife in the region has been the District, where bars such as Apex, Town and Ziegfeld’s are like stations of the social cross.
At least when Post reporters like Bob Woodward referred to Hillary Clinton’s “own stations of the cross in the Whitewater investigation,” he was at least referring to suffering, and not partying. The Stations of the Cross are a primarily Catholic devotion during Lent recounting 14 events on the Via Dolorosa in Jerusalem, or Christ’s carrying the cross to His death.
Well, if Tim would stop looking for gays in public restroom stalls and go to a gay bar, he might understand the suffering metaphor. I mean, I’ve been to Ziegfield’s, where most of its performers look like more zaftig versions of Mr. Graham dressed in cheap gowns and lip syncing to prehistoric disco hits. Actually, comparing Ziegfield’s to the crucifixion is mild, unless perhaps you mean being crucified upside down. (How’s that for an inept religious metaphor, Timmy?)