I just saw a “LGBTQ” protest against Donald J. Trump and I feel like I’ve been cornered in a late-night shower at the Y.
I am speechless and confused and utterly dismayed — and that doesn’t mean I’m going to shy away from the whole tragic story. I actually want everyone to hear what the radical homosexual element is up to, just so I don’t have to live with this naked nightmare all by myself.
As a married Christian, I must confess I know very little about the hardcore gay underground. I’ve heard shocking stories from my friend Pete LaBarbera, but I just assumed he was exaggerating because he can get a little emotional in internet chat rooms. Still, I was so intrigued by his slideshows of the Folsom Street Fair that I decided to leave Mother behind and see what all the fuss was about.
Allow me to spoil it all right now and to assure you that I escaped the Resistance with my heterosexuality intact, but the terrifying truth is that the gays are restless. They want to fight. And to fornicate.
When I was a kid, I lived next door to a construction site. All summer long I would sit up in my tree house. I was just a regular teenager wasting time in my sweaty little fort, eating cupcakes and watching those shirtless fellows carry lumber back and forth. Man, did I eat a lot of cupcakes that July! The men were beefy and hairy and told foul jokes. I would dream of running away with them. We’d sleep in the backs of panel vans and wear enormous tool belts!
Eventually the guys told Mother and she tore out the first few rungs of my tree ladder because I was making them nervous and since I was 19 she thought it was about time I go to Christian camp and leave the binoculars behind.
The reason I say this is because I’ve always admired the working class. Those rough-hewn men are my heroes, tough and thick and ever ready to get down in the mud to wrestle for America’s freedom. Just like Mr. Trump!
But what I saw at this “Folsom Street East” rally in New York City was something entirely different. They’ve taken all the best things about masculinity and turned them inside out. That’s liberalism for you!
Okay, so obviously I’m not expecting prayer and patriotism at a homosexual riot in one of Bernie Sanders’ sanctuary cities, but this was something else! I’ve haven’t seen that many bare male buttocks since my high school locker room days. Some were hairy and meaty, others were pert and smooth, like you could bounce a quarter right off them. I really wondered if they had special gym routines to get them just so firm, but I wasn’t about to ask!
And then I did ask, and a man said, “Daddy, you can cop a feel if you got 20 bucks and want to meet behind the port-o-potties,” and he just walked away cackling!
Yes, these boys liked to cackle! They kept slapping each other’s butts as if it was the most hilarious thing in the world. Slap and slap and slap again! I’d hear that crack and just know some man-hand was thwacking a guy till his cheeks burned bright red!
Pondering all that spanking got me so flustered I had to catch my breath at one of the little booths they had there. This big-faced fellow was selling leather biker hats that reeked of sin and sodomy. Their brims were bedazzled with chrome spikes that would have made the Kaiser proud. Of course these cutting edge fashions were outrageously priced! It just goes to show you that normal people can’t afford the big city lifestyle Democrats on TV are always shouting about.
The daylight began to fade, but not my curiosity!
It was now my mission to follow these anti-Trump activists, no matter what fresh hell I might witness. One of the female impersonators called me “Denim Man” because of my stonewashed dungaree outfit. She sprayed me with glitter to throw me off the trail, but I didn’t back down!
I flipped up the collar of my Chess King coat and took the new biker hat from its rainbow-stickered shop bag. Now I was truly ready to go undercover!
I knew from hours of research on the “dark web” that Resistance activists use a private cellphone network to foment revolution so I logged in to find the latest action.
Their secret tool is called “Grinder” and it’s just bursting with row upon row of indecent material. Here’s a greasy mustachioed leatherman flexing his biceps. Beside him a boy in a sailor cap unzipping his slacks. There are fellows in bubble baths and bikers in jockstraps! Most wear expressions of pure bliss, like they’re about to explode that Bernie Sanders socialism all over you! And it’s advertised with a GPS locator so you can sniff out Satan’s scent with just a few easy clicks.
What the globalist liberal media won’t tell you is that this is exactly the new type of gay that the rebels are breeding today. They are frisky and loud and they let their radical agendas hang right out.
These homosexuals are building an army against President Trump. It’s a man army, full of big bodied, hairy chested warriors who wouldn’t hesitate to throw you to the ground and wrap you in a mess of sweaty limbs like a bag of hot dogs left in the back of Mother’s station wagon on a blazing afternoon.
And what these folks get themselves up to late at night just makes it so much worse!
My next stop was behind the railroad tracks on the west edge of Manhattan. It was a “manwhore” clubhouse with a name I won’t dare repeat.
The basement was packed with bare-chested men drenched in tattoos and sweat. They wore dark sunglasses and writhed feverishly to the latest heavy leather music. A boy with black curly hair blew a plastic whistle to the beat as more and more degenerates marched in from the mean streets above.
“I have an ego problem. I need to be worshipped and adored,” someone whispered in my ear and began stroking my back with an ostrich feather. Everyone waved colorful hankies about, signaling their ranking in the Gay Agenda’s secret pyramid of perversion.
“That means you like to watch,” one outlaw in a cowboy hat told me, stuffing a brown square in my right pocket.
I met men with names like Water Sport, DaVinci, Tommy the Joker and Skip Lee. The threat of violence hung heavily in the air as they danced faster and faster. From the corners, I could hear screams. Young deviants were tied to wooden torture devices and bearded leather men took turns twisting their nipples.
Maybe in the daylight these fellows were playwrights and accountants and college professors, but right here, right now everyone was a potential serial killer.
Later, I stumbled into a second club but it was “precinct night” and I wasn’t dressed as a cop or a soldier. A friendly construction worker helped me when I stumbled out onto the sidewalk. He seemed concerned and asked if I wanted to go for a walk.
I thought of those heroic tradesmen of my childhood as we strolled through the quiet bushes of Central Park. He unzipped his uniform in the damp summer night. I felt relaxed enough to do the same and we laughed realizing our large hairy bellies were like two brave moons orbiting this crazy, demented planet of hardcore liberalism.
Then worlds collided in an instant!
We were passing through a tunnel when he suddenly pressed his body against the wall and said, “Lips or hips?”
I shook my head in horror as he pulled down his work pants and revealed his glutinous maximums in all their meaty glory!
No! Not my savior! Not the hero of my precious childhood dreams! He, too, was an agent of the Hardcore Homosexual Resistance!?!
I ran! I ran through Times Square with its peep shows and the big-lipped boys sucking lollipops and so much more! I ran straight past the hooligan in high heels who glitter bombed me earlier in that horrific act of liberal terrorism! I ran straight back to the “Romantic Chic Retreat” I had rented next to Boxers on 9th Avenue and, despite the cheesy house music and endlessly screaming queens on the corner, I wept hot messy tears until dawn! And there wasn’t a cupcake to be had anywhere in the cupboard of that overpriced AirBnB!
Sorry dear friend Peter for ever doubting you! This sleazy summer of sodomy and sedition is going to get so much worse!