Lent is here, that 40-day period of self denial. In the past, I’ve given up meat, spanking my kids, yelling at my food, and looking into mirrors. This year, I’m giving up hating gays.
For 40 full days, I won’t give dirty looks to the city queers, protest at the community musical theater, swear at rainbows, sabotage costume parties, throw beer bottles at the roller derby, buy wigs for short-haired women, loosen wheels off of roller skates, persecute men who do zumba, spit whenever I say California, or refuse to drink milk
I’ll stop boycotting the cooking network, burning David Sedaris books, cutting France out of my maps, triggering the fire alarm during women’s poker night at the rec center, trapping small dogs, avoiding closets, releasing rats into the theater during the annual Rocky Horror Picture Show celebration, thinking up hateful acronyms for G.A.Y., yelling at foreign-adopted babies, putting laxatives in vegan foods at the grocery store, and avoiding anything phallic-shaped.
I may even listen to Kelly Clarkson, wear a color on my clothing, snap my fingers (only once), move a hip, get my hair cut by someone else, shop at a fancy grocery store, or cuddle with my wife.
But for sure, I’ll stop hating weird furniture, female plumbers, miniatures, that famous drag queen Tyra Banks, alternative spellings of common names, foreign films, aprons for men, fat women, and the word gregarious.
I’ll also be reintroducing the following words back into my vocabulary: gang, gate, game, gauge, reggae, gain, gala, alligator (the gayest of all closeted gay animals), merengue, engage, brigade, and fumigate. But only for the 40 days of lent.
I’ve also decided that during this period I’ll stop hunting illegal immigrants.