I think we all know I am devoted to the gay community. After all, were it not for homos, I would never have survived high school. I would never have gone to the prom. I would never have learned how to drink.
So it is with disgust and anger that I learn our new pope is a huge outspoken homophobe. One of the main reasons that I no longer practice Catholicism, other than how amazingly boring mass is, is because so many of my friends aren’t welcome in the house of the Lord. If they’re not good enough for church, neither am I.
The thing is, think of how much more interesting and fabulous church would be if gay people were welcomed with open arms. The music would kick ass, vestments would involve magenta sequins and coffee and doughnuts after mass would become mimosas and croissants. Church would be packed. You’d need reservations.
Gay people make everything better, including faith. In fact, and you won’t believe this, gay people even make sports better. This morning, on my way to work, I was listening to 92.7. Nothing wakes me up like coffee and gay disco. And one of Energy 92.7’s new features is “Greg, the Gay Sportscaster.”
Greg fills us in on the weeks sporting events. He’s hilarious and informative. Apparently, there’s some baseball steroid scandal. Baseball players use steroids? Who knew? Suddenly, sports have become interesting and entertaining, thanks to my new pal, Greg. I’d even hasten to say I’d be willing to venture into an actual sports bar with Greg in tow, explaining touchdowns and trades to me over Sauvignon Blanc and unshelled peanuts.
I’ve found that those who seem to hate gay people the most always wind up caught blowing a boy scout under the bleachers. Thus, I can only assume that Pope Benedict XVI is a big flaming queen, so terrified that we’ll all learn of his shocking secret that he’s willing to condemn 10% of God’s children. Well, fuck that.
When PBXVI is ready to come out of his gilded closet, embrace humanity and all of its color, and admit that perhaps there’s room for all of us in heaven, then I’ll be in the front pew flanked by Andy and Elton John, sayin' the Rosary and sippin' that wine.
Until then, I’ll be spending my Sunday mornings at brunch with a bunch of queens praying to Bloody Mary, who, let me assure you, is no virgin…