I’m writing this on my iPad just moments after I got fingered at the Kansas City International Airport. I don’t mean I received a discreet pat, or a friendly rubber-gloved slip of the hand. This man-pretending-to-be-a-lesbian put his hand in the elastic of my skirt and did a complete 360-degree probe around my subtle waist. Then, kneeling in front of me, the Satan-servant thrust his gloved hand between my legs, and that’s when the incident happened, my dear readers, for I must have forgotten to wear my underpants (as I often do when rushing around my manse in a hurry before going on a trip). The monster made contact with my secret feminine treasure-box, and as much as I loved — I mean, hated it —it was necessary for me, as Kansas City’s favorite Christian, to scream with pain as I got felt up. I’ll never forget the sound of my horrified voice … a combination of pleasure, agony and embarrassment … and then I fainted.
I know what you’re thinking. But don’t judge me, you sinner, holding this nasty piece of gay trash in your hands. You’re as guilty as that ETSA’s (Evil Transportation Security Administration’s) finger. You find pleasure in my pain, and while I don’t judge you, I know God will … and I would hold up a Fred Phelps sign right now in front of your house — if I had the energy.
So to protect future MCI passengers, I’ve decided to invest in a Colorado inventor’s latest product: body-scanner-proof underwear. Jeff Buske of Denver created underpants with fig-leaf shaped radiation shields to keep the government’s eyes out of your crotch — but that doesn’t mean they won’t shove their hands into your nasty nest. That’s just what those Demoncrats do.
And while I secretly love watching naked bodies as much as the rest of you, it’s perfectly normal to gaze longingly at bodies–as long as you’re lusting after the opposite sex. I’ve put this beautiful Renaissance naked rendering of Adam and Eve here as a reminder to you homos that God created Adam and Eve, not Adrianne and Eve or Adam and Steve.
And then there are the few of you who enjoy watching naked bodies under the guise of “sports”: sumo wrestling, nubile teen boys with body paint, poodles dyed green for St. Patrick’s Day. Call me old fashioned, but after discussing this topic, my groin isn’t heaving … only my stomach.
I can’t write anymore. I’m exhausted, sore, and totally unfulfilled by my recent physical encounter … much like Dirty Dorothy must have felt on New Year’s Day (I saw what she did at that 10 o’clock show). But I am compelled to keep telling you queer sinners that you’re wrong, I’m right, and that 2011 will be the year I get to wear the rubber gloves. Just saying’.