Obviously, with the recent signing at Tucker Carlson's White Citizens Council newsletter of pathologically unpleasant word typist Betsy Rothstein , following her recent flushing from FishbowlDC , word is out to the rest of the DaCall staff to either go big on the troll-bait click counts or go home ... by which we mean The House That Andrew Breitbart Built and Then Died In Front Of.
With few job prospects outside of becoming, once again, The Worst Agent Provocateur in the History of Mankind, the Daily Callers Patrick Howley rose to the bait and took a mighty gulp by confessing that all of you Gays out there (you know who you are ... Lindsey Graham excluded) are falling down on the job at being gay enough for Patrick's tastes:
Gays have become totally boring, this reporter has learned.
Although gay Americans were for decades popularly identified as daring, transgressive, flamboyant, colorful and sometimes menacing (though also intriguing) mavericks, self-styled advocates have managed to rebrand the gay community as a bland, tedious, grievance group eagerly seeking government approval.
With this week’s push for ENDA (the Employment Non-Discrimination Act), another anti-business piece of legislation that allows self-identified cultural victims to sue their employers after they get fired, all the familiar annoying characters have come out of the tastefully-refurbished woodwork.
Now before we start calling Patrick a closeted gay who indulges in projection, he is quick to point out that he has a
black gay friend and also that some/all people may think he is gay BUT HE IS NOT! and he is tired of being treated like a gay slab of man meat because you Gays are not pulling your weight:
Now, let me be clear. I love the gays. I have gay friends, gay mentors, gay acquaintances and associates. In fact, many people even assume that I am gay. Particularly women I’ve slept with.
Also old men. A lot of old men. I mean, seriously, if balding, beady-eyed middle-aged men in sweaters were hot chicks, I’d be Ashton Kutcher. I’m practically on the cover of their magazines. I can’t even walk around DuPont Circle on early autumn evenings or interact with male bank tellers without getting eyed down like a side of ribs. It’s not even flattering. I know why it happens. I only get it because I’m skinny and I look like I’d be a bottom. It’s demeaning, really.
Gayness used to be pretty awesome, according to alternative literature from the period 1954-78. Back in the day, gays were subversive adventurers, trolling the city streets at night on a lustful quest for experience and with an outlaw mentality not seen since the days of the Wild West. They were decadently-dressed sexual superheroes, daring Middle America to condemn them as they pranced their corseted, high-heeled bodies around to midnight screenings of great American movies like “The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” “Pink Flamingoes,” and “Mommy Dearest.” They had an ingrained creativity, a patented sense of irony. They had a brand. They had an identity.
But then the Stalinist progressives forced all of you Gays onto The Gay Plantation where they took away your fabulous Gay names and replaced your assless chaps with elastic waist Dockers and just made you all boring boring boring by treating you as equals with the same rights as anyone instead special limited rights for the Special People That You Are:
The progressives hosed all of that activity down. The progressives have filled the back-alley glory holes with MoveOn.org petitions. They have condemned clubs named “The Toilet” and erected phone-banking operations for Media Matters. They have taken away your leather costumes and dressed you in Obama-Biden T-shirts. They have taken away your poppers and your molly and handed you $14 apple martinis.
We see a proud subculture reduced to a series of self-important Twitter hashtags employed by stupid college-aged women. We see a community with tremendous potential for creativity and expression fronted by catty little Buzzfeed writers in glasses that should have gone out with Elvis Costello. We see a populace that included universally-beloved icons like Paul Lynde and Truman Capote now co-opted by a generation of pampered Stalinists who wouldn’t know Freddie Mercury if he jizzed on their Wesleyan College Speech Codes.
He forgot to add that we have also seen the best gays of our generation destroyed by Will & Grace, starving and hysterical for a Pinkberry, and dragging themselves through the Provincetown streets at dawn looking for an open Ikea.
So it is up to you, Gays. It's time to man up/strap on/lube up and provide Patrick Howley with some good old fashioned country fabulousness (maybe Gay Minstrel shows!) lest he spend his lonely winter evenings desultorily listening to Bohemian Rhapsody while watching DVR'd episodes of RuPaul's Drag Race and hoping for that fire down below...