Dear readers,
As a San Francisco columnist, my struggle has been long and treacherous and fraught with guilt and shame and really, really good music. Many nights, lo these past years, as I wailed out my pain to an unforgiving neoconservative God, the stink of liberalness and Astroglide and womanly scent upon me like the devil's own Minwax, I truly believed my soul was forever lost in the pits of warm-hearted sex-positive progressive-minded hell.
But now, at long last, just like the good Rev. Ted Haggard, my heart can rejoice, for I am saved. I am ready to return to public life and the arms of our angry, all-American Lord once more. Finally, at long last, I can say it for certain: I am a Republican. And I am miserably gay. Rejoice!
You may ask: What does this mean? You may say: Hey! I'm a good, upstanding American! I want my share of shame and torment and repressed sexuality, too! How can I suffer just like you and Ted? I shall attempt to explain.
You see, for many years, I have battled with the twin demons of my love of women and also that most vile of insidious tormenters, independent thought.
It's true. I have dared to care about this planet. I truly believed gay and women's rights were not merely mandatory, but morally obvious, like air and wine and strap-on dildos. I believed in a healthy environment, mystical insight, organic food, Prada boots, divine connection to a wicked delicious ambisexual pantheistic God, good sheets and the idea that Hitachi Magic Wands should be given to every girl -- and most boys -- on or around their 14th birthday.
Clearly, I have been misled by the devil.
. . .
