WHISTLIN' LIKE A FRUIT

Being raised in the new American tradition of non-religion, I can’t help but question America’s moral values in confronting the gay and lesbian marriage debate.

Massachusetts Courts have determined that the legislature has to rework its laws to make gay civil marriages legal and constitutionally just.

In the United States it’s necessary for anyone who has a significant other to be wedded in order to obtain all the rights and responsibilities thereof. Whether its taxation or simply being able to see a dying loved one, all people deserve the full benefit of American justice and privilege.

The arguments against this measure the Massachusetts courts has made makes no sense. A civil marriage is merely a statement to the government that two people have chosen to share the burdens of life in our society together. How this is threatening to anyone or anything is beyond me.

The only arguments lie in sheer discrimination.

“We don’t like them fags,” the three-toothed wonder says to his Priest. The Priest joins him in riotous gay-hate for two minutes and forgets that his God created all “them fags” just like him. He then proceeds to touch a little boy’s pee-pee.

The moral values of the Christian right appear to be in jeopardy. Hate, prejudice, and molestation seem to be the new mantra.

If you drop religion, however, the dispute has no bearing. Other than the economic facts, that is. Married couples benefit from so many perks (i.e. employee benefits, joint tax returns) that maybe it won’t be good for the economy.

Now, that’s an argument.

However, I’m sure caterers, wedding photographers, and DJ’s will be happy to have their neck of the woods fiscally stimulated.

Now, I’m not gay. I don’t even pretend to have any gay friends. I’ve met gay men before and we just don’t have much in common. But I don’t care if they’re having sex, married, or dressing in purple spandex jumpers with gophers all over their bedrooms.

Joe and Cindy across the street from me are really into playing “The Duke and the Naughty Chamber Maid.”

What business is it of mine?

What business is it of yours?

DEFENDING THE REPUBLIC

It was early in the morning on Tuesday, November 4 and I drove sporadically through the wintry expanse on my way to vote for mayor of a small town I used to call home. The snow had recently fallen, an Election Day tradition, so the commuters were mulling around the highways and byways for far too long.

I arrived in my hometown at 8:30 in the morning. I keep an address there for the simple fact of being able to vote for a town you don't live in seems rather ridiculous and intrusive, exciting and probably illegal. My polling place was an old abandoned school, now converted to an English school for children. Back in the fifties it was the local town bomb shelter for when the commies finally attacked. Stories still circulate about the bloodshed caused by the Cuban Missile Crisis. Priests and teachers punching and scratching for a place in the shelter. Children abandoned in the street. The elderly being used as food. Those were tragic memories. It seems only fitting that this cultural landmark be used as the quintessential place of my important decision-making duties.

I wandered inside and nodded to the cute teacher aids in the hallway on my way to the gymnasium. Nothing like choosing a mayor in a gym.

The old ladies, the standard small town election fare, handed me my ballot and directed me to one of those wonderful striped curtain booths. One had to wonder just when this furniture was assembled and where they stored it in the off season. Did one of these ladies take it home and pretend to vote all year long? Or even worse, did she inherit the keeping of the sacred booth as some death bed-duty to the republic thing I don't know about?

Who's to say? Old ladies lie.

I scanned the ballot. First, there was the obligatory mayoral election. The incumbent, a man who as I understand it, has done a fine job, and the contester, a man noted for his cruelty to animals. Who was I to choose? I could vote for the incumbent and it wouldn't affect my life in any way. Or I could choose the other guy, and (ahem) it wouldn't affect my life in any way, either. Choices. That's what life is.

On my way into town, I noticed the signs posted for each candidate. What I noticed was that the incumbent was so lazy that he used the same advertisement for this election as he did last time. Now, it seems to me that "Vote for a Change!" would be a bad slogan if you were already mayor, but who am I to say.

I checked the box next to the other guy.

Moving to the next office, City Council Member, I scanned the names. I could choose two so I chose a fellow by the name of "Kennedy," since he sounded like a real winner and someone by the name of "Cletus," because he'd need all the help he could get.

As I reached the final lap, the schoolboard members, I laughed to myself. I hated my hometown school district. I hated my teachers, my principal, and the other students. Indeed, I disliked the library, the classes, and the building's general architecture. I'd be damned if I'd tap anyone who actually wanted the job. They were jackasses.

I'd make use of the wonderful thing we have in America called the write-in box. Two minutes of school hate followed as I filled in every name I could imagine from Judge Ito to Socrates to my old drug dealer. I envision some elderly ballot counter reading off the names of write-ins for the records and thinking to herself "Socrates would make a great boardmember, maybe he'd let me out of this nursing home."

Don't count on it.

As I handed the ancient lady my ballot, she put it in the shredder, handed me a sticker, and I left feeling very unsatisfied. Later on, as the results poured into the obscure internet sight that showcases ridiculously unimportant elections, I laughed at the fact that of the 1500 registered voters in the town, only 600 voted. Some electorate.

All in all, no one I voted for would end up winning except for the mayoral candidate. The incumbent wasn't a bad guy; he just had poor advertising skills. His opponent was downright evil, however. Word around the campfire is that he was trained by the Taliban to strike fear into the hearts of my hometown by ruling it with an iron fist. We'll have to see.

Worst of all. He won by only one vote.

That's my shocking abuse of democracy.