Ensuring Gay-Bashers Aren’t Gay

Jason Collins

Jason Collins’s recent announcement that he is gay has generated heaps of praise across all walks of life.  I’m very happy for Jason, and I applaud his transparency. With my latest epiphany, I challenge gay-bashers to do the same.

I don’t really understand what motivates a gay-basher.  For some, the thought of two gay people having sex is unsettling.  Personally, I really don’t care what people do behind closed doors, as long as it doesn’t impact my 401(k) or affect the health of my lawn.

But I’m not here to figure why people object to the gay lifestyle.  I’m a true American, and that means I don’t think about social problems.  I think about how to make money off social problems.  Thus, I decided to literally capitalize on the issue by borrowing a chapter from the Salem witch hunts, which, back in the day, was a big money-maker for the New England economy.

Is the Reverend gay?

Since gay-bashers have persecuted homosexuals for years, I thought it would be great fun to give them a dose of their own medicine, and make some cash off them in the process.

If the source of hatred truly comes down to the sexual act, then what proof do gay-bashers have that people in their own ranks are not homosexuals? Currently, you have to take them at their word, but that won’t cut it. The only way to ensure  gay-bashers are not gay is to monitor their sexual activities. With the help of today’s technology, I decided to create a little 21st century witch-hunt.

First, I ambled down to the town watering hole, where our most prominent gay-basher holds court.  His name is Blaine, and he parks himself at the end of the bar every night. Blaine routinely sneers at the TV, muttering “Faggot” between slurps.

Blaine is not the leader of the gay-bashing movement, but he’s a darn good follower.  I asked Blaine to name some of local figures who shared his views.  He referred me to the Reverend Bobby Beloved, a local pastor who routinely delivers sermons on why the Boy Scouts should create a gay-bashing merit badge.

I asked Blaine, “What proof do you have that the Reverend isn’t gay?”

Blaine responded by punching me right in the mouth, which was to be expected.  Instead of calling my lawyers, however, I went home and waited.

Sure enough, a few days later, Blaine called me.  “I been thinking about what you said.  God would probably want me to double-check on the Reverend, don’t you think?”

“The Rev could be Satan in sheep’s clothing,” I replied.  “Why don’t you rustle up some of your buds and let’s pay him a visit?”

Within an hour, Blaine was leading a torch and pitchfork-bearing mob to the home of the Reverend.  It continues to amaze me how mobs always have torches and pitchforks at the ready.  They must hang them in the garage next to the rakes and lawn darts.

Blaine knocked on the Rev’s door.  “We want proof!” he shouted out.  “Submit to sexual monitoring!”

The Reverend stepped onto the porch and crossed his arms.  “The devil’s at work here,” he eyeballed me, as I was the only one without pitchfork and torch.

“No, I think everyone wants to be sure the devil isn’t at work,” I said. “But maybe you shouldn’t be the only one to submit to monitoring.  To be 100% certain no one else is a homosexual, I think everyone else should be under surveillance as well.”  The mob eyed each uncertainly, and one by one, agreed to my terms.

Never underestimate the power of a good witch hunt.

Watching Very Bad Sex on Cable Access

With a few discrete diodes and a camera attached to a headband, every gay-basher was monitored.  I made a deal with a cable channel to broadcast any recorded sex acts on a pay-per-view basis, thus ensuring my epiphany was cash-flowing.  Lights, camera, intercourse!

At first, the gay-bashers went cold turkey, and no one had sex for a month.  Eventually, they began to crack, and in most disturbing ways.  We witnessed a spate of bizarre sexual predilections, including barnyard animals, blow-up dolls, and even a few outer space aliens (not entirely sure how that was arranged.)

A sizable percentage of gay-bashers also turned out to be gay, including the Reverend and Blaine, who had apparently been seeing each other on the sly.  (I had a hunch.)

When they realized that no one really gave a crap about their lifestyle, the gay-bashers shucked their pitchforks and torches. A new era of tolerance was born.  Soon sexual monitoring spread across the globe, and in town after town, the same results occurred.  Eventually, sexual discrimination ended, and I was lauded for my epiphanal genius.

As an added bonus, I was asked to be the best man at the wedding of Blaine and the Reverend.  It was a tremendous affair, with much joy and no pitchforks.  Unfortunately, I don’t have any pictures to share of their beautiful day, but fortunately both men were still wearing my headband-cams.  Tune in to your local pay-per-view channel and catch the highlights!

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