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The best publicized — and most embarrassing — piece of data to emerge in the wake of Prop. 8’s victory was that 70 percent of black Californians voted to uphold traditional marriage.
One devoutly loyal liberal faction deserted a naive liberal faction that foolishly assumed liberals were monolithic in their beliefs.
Oops.
The Home of the Brave has been evacuated this afternoon. Ain’t no courage left in this here town.
Now what do gays do with egg racing down their put-upon faces?
They are stunned, and puzzled, because they feel they have been betrayed by blacks.
But to actually fight back against blacks? Are you kidding? Let’s not act hastily. I need time to think this over. Oh, I don’t know how long. Maybe seven or eight years.
The boys in the band of brothers and sisters, and their fellow slow-thinkers in the media, were so busy trying to get Mr. Obama elected at all costs, they carelessly overlooked the fact that some voters vote their consciences, their souls, not the pity-patter of their little hearts.
The huge swath of blacks who voted for traditional marriage hold strong traditional religious beliefs. These blacks also deeply resented gays making the absurd, trumped-up charge that they are being deprived of their “civil rights,” a marketing consultant’s formulation.
Nothing to Do but Back Down, Heroically
Convinced they were out of palatable options, our gay brothers and sisters dropped into their Custer mode, and sounded their bugles:
R-e-t-r-e-a-t.
Does anyone else find it fascinating that the silly band of gay brothers and sisters clogging our streets this week with their juvenile jokeless jocularity and pitiable petulance have meticulously avoided protesting in the faces of their presumed main target?
Ain’t nobody out there in the gay community marching into black neighborhoods. Ain’t nobody ringing up one of their puerile protests in front of a black church.
Ain’t nobody answering the question “why,” either.
Now why do you think these bully boys are scrupulously, sneakily, dishonestly, tiptoeing down the block and around the corner — back out into neighborhoods where they can breathe the fresh air of self-generated hatred while aiming their swords at the defenseless. A match, at last.
Wouldn’t surprise me if they showed up tomorrow morning with their hate signs in front of a nursing home for the blind. Is Hillside or Forest Lawn next?
These supposedly furious gays have been acting like a football team that runs up and down a sidewalk in front of the stadium instead of going inside and actually competing on the field.
Hey, guys, over here. Being he-men and she-girls, they have done what woolly-minded bullies always do. They browbeat the vulnerable, the better to pump up their meagre resumes.
And so the bully boys, egged on by their loose-minded, fist-pumping, anti-religious pals in the media, attacked the Mormon Temple on Santa Monica Boulevard. As Ms. Goldberg would say, “Whoopi.”
The Mormons? Is that a punchline?
Has Anyone Spotted a Grownup?
Obviously, this is the dimmest division of gay boys and girls who are protesting. They remind me of an athlete who is throwing a game. He tries to lose while making it appear that he wants to win.
The Mormons? This is a gasping attempt at a joke, right? The Mormons?
“Let’s see,” said one gay man to another. “How can we win the hearts and minds of our fellow Americans? Let’s impugn people’s religious beliefs. I know it never has worked before, but so what? Welcome to the Age of Obama where everything is possible if not sensible. Then let’s really be manly. Next, we will demonstrate in front of a little Mexican restaurant called El Coyote where I heard one guy in management made a donation to the ‘Yes on 8’ campaign.
“Oooh, boy. That will give us a chance to flex our muscles. We will show people that if they are going to disagree with us, they will not escape punishment.”
Murgatroyd, take a memo: Tell the bully boys that the next time I feel I need protection, I will call the Boy Scouts instead. Meanwhile, those brave bully boys can chain themselves together and hunker down under Ted Cooke’s desk.
