Wednesday, August 29, 2012

It's C*ntagious

(Pay attention at the 15 second mark!)

My Mom once told me that when I was little, one of my favorite phrases, was "Mother F*ckers".  Combining the warm, loving title of the woman who birthed me with a less than couth synonym for what my parents could have been called while conceiving me apparently did not sit well in certain social settings.

Being the eldest grandchild on my Dad's side of the family in which I only had Uncles, who were in their late teens or early 20's during my childhood, you can imagine that I developed a well versed, swear word laden vocabulary at an early age.

Moving to the teen years, my Mom would beg my brother, Joe and I not to cuss.  We would drop F bombs like no tomorrow but one day, when my Mom offered us cash to quit, we stopped cold turkey.  Joe, lacking willpower and the inability to avoid situations in which b*tch and sh*t are not commonly used words, failed within 2 hours.  I, however,  held on for two whole years! Not one crude word was uttered from my mouth during that time.  I became the King of saying, "heck", "darn" and "oh, shoot!"  In other words, I was miserable.

(There is something greatly satisfying about a well placed ^%&$.)

Now, as a full grown adult, I have ventured back to the land of cussing.  It releases frustration, anger and gosh darn it, sometimes it's just fun!  But, the one word that had always remained off limits was the elusive and oft-hated C-word.  No, not copulation, chlamydia or coccyx but rather the super bad one.  You know it. The word that is so crass that if it rattles off of your tongue, your Great Aunt Dottie Mae would somehow arrive with a purse full of bricks and knock you over the head so hard that you'd be bruised longer than Chris Brown's career.

But, I'll have you know that all of the ceased with I moved to Australia.  While still socially impolite, c*nt has a charm here that is uniquely Australian.  Sometimes, people say it so nonchalantly and lovingly that you don't even realize that they are your friend until they have referred to you as that word. It is truly heart warming.

(Clockwise Emotions: "Ouch, I can't believe that I said it!" - "Wait, did I say it?" - "Ahh, who cares?!" - "I am so sorry, Grandma!")

With that said, tonight on television in Australia, history was made.  A lovely television presenter named Carrie Bickmore, one of the hosts of Channel Ten's - "The Project", innocently and accidentally stumbled over that colorful word, sort of.

Gingerly crafting a new c*nt hybrid, she combined the name of Australia's National Airline Carrier, Qantas with the word "customers".  In that moment, she bestowed upon the world, C*ntas!

As the new word bungee jumped from of her mouth, I had never felt more pride.  I quickly signed up to become a member of the C*ntas Frequent Flyer Program and I can't wait to be welcomed into the fold. I do, however, have a strange feeling that the flights will no longer serve warm nuts.  But, I'm excited for this new venture because if Qantas is known as the "flying kangaroo", I can't wait to fly, C*ntas - the "flying carpet"!

To sum up my emotions towards this event and the talented Carrie Bickmore, I have written a poem to delicately express the joy that ran through my veins on this momentous, Australian evening.  Well done, Ms. Bickmore, well done!

(The new Australian Idol)

Carrie On 

In from the gym, I flicked on the screen,
My mouth fell agape, when you said what you didn't mean,

Past your lips, a frightful word did slip,
I guess we now know, which airline ruined your last trip...

I choked on my laughter and quickly wrote a status update,
You made your stance pretty clear when it comes to airline price rates...

Now, I'm not sure if Channel Ten has lost a corporate sponsor yet,
But I think we'll all know when you can't board that Qantas jet...

So, don't worry Ms. B, you can always ride a Virgin, 
or make a pun of that too,
But saying the C-word on national tv,  Carrie,
has just made a legend out of you...

With a smile on my face, I must be blunt,
But a lackluster Wednesday ended, the moment you said c*nt!

Thank you!

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Sunday, August 26, 2012

AmeriCAN, not AmeriCAN'T

You know, I'm a pretty non-confrontational person.  I prefer the biggest drama of my day to be based around some reality television show elimination, as opposed to a real life controversy or argument.  I, also, am not some blanket patriot who overwhelming throws around my Americanism or boast about how I think that I am from the best country in the world.  Generally, I do it subtly by wearing American flag underwear and quietly chanting the anthem on the hour, every hour. However, I passively sat through a conversation the other day in which my Motherland was mocked and I am chastising myself thoroughly for it tonight.

(I'm letting freedom ring! Ding Dong!  Ding Dong!)

It seems that everyone from every other country has an opinion on the US and that's fine.  Personally, I didn't know that other countries existed until 4 years ago but that's ok, I'm still learning.  

You see, I take no personal offense when someone disputes American policy, questions a government action or makes fun of our affinity for delicious fried foods.  I get it - they've never experienced the joy of eating Wal-Mart chicken wings dipped in delectable ranch dressing while tossing fried okra into their mouths. So, how would they know any better? 

For me though, the line is crossed when an American is present and you start throwing around stereotypes with the intent of hate.  If I make fun of America, it's ok - it's my hood.  If you make fun of America, well then, we've got some fighting words! 

When it comes to stereotypes though, I've heard them all; we're fat, we're dumb, we don't travel, we're loud, we're cocky, we're incredibly well hung and granted, all of those are true but sometimes it's tough being the only nation full of males who don't need a rope in order to win a double dutch competition.

And, in all fairness, we Americans can sometimes come off as a 300 million strong hot mess.  We make the Kardashians richer each day, remain blissfully unaware of most political proclamations and couldn't find Cambodia on a map if we tried. But, of course, we won't try because who wants to go there anyway?  

(Jumping for joy!  It's what Americans do!)

If the same conversations were occurring but they were placing stereotypes onto a race or religion, we'd never allow someone to sit there and openly bash them, especially not when someone of that group is present.  So then why, my dear friends, are Americans exempt?  Why are we then meant to take the brunt of the hate and keep a smile on our perfectly white teeth?

I'm not looking for sympathy, I can hold my own but just think about it for a second. If I were at a party and an Iranian woman walked in and I suddenly started making jokes about her bur-kini, I'd be crucified.  Or, if a Jehovah's Witness beat on the door, offered me a pamphlet and then came inside for a drink of water, I'd look like a jerk if I kept making "knock knock" jokes.  It's just not fair.

"Jesus!  I told you to take the wheel, not knock on the door! Now quit looking at my burkini through the peephole!"

In those moments of anti-Americanism, it places me or any other American, in quite a unique position.  Obviously, I could just walk away and let you continue your chat about how stupid we are but then that let's you win and goes against my inherent pride.  Or, I could try to argue back and fumble through a pre-determined bullet pointed list of why you're wrong but that will then prove that I am one of the arrogant, cocky bastards that you proclaimed us all to be anyways.  So, what do I do?  My hands are tied and I am being water boarded by your calls of unnecessary hatred.

Americans aren't bad people.  In fact, many of us possess very similar traits to those of people from other countries. So, why can't we just call a truce. You quit hating on my country and I will keep maintaining the status quo and never fully understand where your country is on a map.  Then, we can continue to live in harmony and peace until your country finds a hidden source of oil and my country decides to make it its' own.

(Have some respect, @$$hole!  The least you could do is burn the right flag!)

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Friday, August 24, 2012

A Judgement Free Musical Journey

When it comes to music, we all have those songs that we love but yet we feel enough shame to keep it secret.  When that special jam comes on, you look around to be sure that you are alone and then it gets you going like nobody's business.  You may be standing in your cubicle at work having a musical "come to Jesus moment" or rocking down the interstate singing your heart out but in that moment, you are owning that $#!& and no one's going to ruin it for you. 

Below, I am coming to terms with my shame.  Channelling a simpler time, I am going old school with these jams.  And, by old school, I mean the late 80's.  So, join me and share in the comments your guilty musical pleasure.  I won't judge you...out loud.

("We Don't Have To Take Our Clothes Off" - Jermaine Stewart)

Jermaine Stewart (RIP), singer/dancer/fashionista, gives us our first blast from the past. This song is the reason for this whole post because for the past two days, this song has been gently caressing my inner thoughts.  Perhaps it is because I am ashamed of my oversized nipples and his recommendation of keeping one's clothes on, comforts me.

My favorite part of the video is the end in which he is directly facing the camera and a woman's hands are pulling at him and he coyly would rather stay singing than go off and make sweet love to his lady friend.  Personally, I think that that speaks volumes but I will leave that open for artistic interpretation.

("Would I Lie To You" - Charles and Eddie)

Charles (RIP) and Eddie or, as I like to call them, the REAL Milli Vanilli really knew how to pose a deep question with an upbeat tempo.  This song gives you melodic highs and lows and I'll tell you one thing, it has the emotional pull to really help make washing dishes eventful.

As I was on my magical, musical youtube journey, this song came on right when the soap lathered up enough to really plow into the dishes and now, those babies are on the rack, shining and shimmering.  Sure, my hands may be pruned because I played this on repeat no less than 18 times but it was well worth it.

("Wishing Well" - Terrence Trent D'Arby)

Terrence Trent D'Arby's poster was once plastered over my Aunt's bedroom wall and for a while, I thought she had an odd fascination with Whoopi Goldberg. It wasn't until a few years later, when she was pregnant and considered naming her son Terrence or Trent that I realized that it wasn't Whoopi at all but rather a smooth, suave male crooner.

The two back up singers clad in perfectly bleached white turtlenecks and fake Ray-bans, as well as a couple of interspersed dance breaks really show you how groundbreaking this video was. Wherever, TTD'A is today, I hope that he is still sporting the braids.

So, there you have it.  My symphonic shame has been laid out before you.  Do I feel bad about it? No!  Will I wake up tomorrow and feel awkward, possibly. But, it doesn't matter because I will just pick up my iPod, flick to my favorite play list and imaginary dance the hurt away.

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Wednesday, August 22, 2012

The Pink Worm (Not a Double Entendre)

("...when I look into my nephew's eyes, man you wouldn't believe the most amazing things that can come from some terrible lies...")

I've been betrayed, bamboozled and hoodwinked all in one fell swoop and for that, I blame you, Wal-Mart!

As everyone knows, Baby Jayden made the giant leap into manhood this week by turning one year old.  By reaching this milestone, I figured it was time that he grew up and began to embrace plush toys that would sing him to sleep while lighting up.

Because I am his favorite Uncle, I decided to buy him one of the more memorable toys from my childhood and I got him a glow worm.  I went to because it is like a beacon to my white trash soul and I ordered a blue glow worm to be mailed to little Jayden in time for his birthday party.

It was delivered to my parents' house and my Mom was going to wrap it for me.  I called her to confirm that it had arrived and I could tell that something in her tone was weird but I let it be.  I mean, what could go wrong with a glow worm?

The day of his party, I asked that someone post a photo online so that when I awoke on the other side of the world the next morning, I would have a beautiful, smiling photo of my baby nephew holding his fun, new toy.

(Oh wow! Uncle Edmund got me a...)

You can imagine my surprise when I woke to see Jayden awkwardly holding a bright pink glow worm!  Someone in Wal-Mart's processing center must have accidentally confused the words and/or his genitals.

(WTF is this bull$#!%?)

I fired out an angry email at 6am using words that shouldn't be typed before the sun rises.  Then, I called my Mom. "Mom?  You didn't tell me it was pink!" and she responded, "Oh well, I didn't want to upset you!" OHHHH great - so, you let him open it in front of a group of people and then chanted out, "Look what Uncle Edmund got you!"  I am sure there were multiple side eye looks and a couple of, "oh no he didnt's" flying around that room.

(OMG!  Thanks, Uncle E!  Best.Gift.NEVER!)

My Mom tried to quell my frustration by saying, "Oh stop!  He loves it.  He is laying with it right now!"  To which I responded, "Great!  It'll match his f*cking dress that is arriving tomorrow!"

(Since his gift sucked, he washed away his sorrows with cake!)

I get it.  It doesn't matter. A pink glow worm functions in the same way as a blue glow worm but that's not what I ordered him.  I wasn't making a social statement about non-gender specific colors or the conformity that comes from stereotypical male/female roles, I just wanted my baby boy to have a blue glow worm.  Instead, now he's laying in a crib somewhere holding on tightly to his own little, pink glow worm.

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Monday, August 20, 2012

Baby Jayden's Birthday

("...Happy Birthday Dear Jayden, Happy Birthday to you...")

Sure, he started out sort of lazy.  He would lay around all day waiting on someone to feed him, clothe him and even bathe him but eventually, my brother Andrew realized that he is a father now and that he had to do those things for someone else.  

Little Jayden Michael blessed the world with his presence last year on August 20th.  Arriving a couple of weeks early, he was a surprise in more ways than one. Many months prior, as I sat in the comfort of a fancy Red Lobster restaurant in Pensacola, I learned that the baby who would eventually be named Jayden was on the way.  A little bit apprehensive and nervous for what the future may hold, I immediately took comfort in the delicious biscuits and complementary salad that was drowned in delicious Thousand Island dressing.  After chugging down two glasses of Dr. Pepper and requesting more melted butter for my crab claws, I realized that life is full of surprises and a beautiful baby will never be a bad one. I also realized that a full sized adult bib emblazoned with a large crustacean is not exactly the best look in public.

On the day that Jayden was born, I received the call as I was standing outside of a McDonald's.  Overwhelmed by the fact that this little baby had finally entered the world and that I had forgotten to get an extra packet of sweet and sour sauce, I burst into tears.  From the moment on, I have been smitten by my baby nephew.

For those of you on my Facebook, you've been force fed weekly Jayden photos and undoubtedly cataloged and scrap booked them in your own personal homage to him.  For that, I thank you.

To celebrate Baby J's first year on the planet, let's have a look at some of his best photos along the way! 

(Jayden's face when he realized what "circumcision" meant!)

("Uhhh, I know you a'int about to dip my head under some water in the Lord's name!")


(Greatest Day of Jayden's Life!  Meeting Me!)

(Jayden is HONGRAY!!!!)

(Handsome Boy sporting his best look yet.)

(My family scaring the hell out of him by making him pose in front of a dead shark.)

(He's a big help around the house.  He enjoys emptying drawers to help his Mom re-organize things.)

(Obviously fashion forward, his glasses match his outfit as he prepares for his first haircut.)

(Jayden grows his first moustache which appears to be quite blonde or dough.)

So, to my baby boy Jayden, I love you very much and I hope that you have a great first birthday!  With every photo, every phone call and every story, I love you more.  I can't wait to spoil you and piss your parents off as I sneak you cake, teach you cuss words and buy you things that they won't let you have. After all, that is the job of any good Uncle.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

White Trash Queen

("...Oh, nothin' sweeter than Summertime and American honey...")

The raspberry jelly dangled precariously over the edge of the peanut butter laden bread as I took a bite down.  It was midnight and sleep had yet to find me.  I had been scouring youtube watching a plethora of "Call Me Maybe" parodies and 47 minutes later, I finally grew bored and decided that I needed something more to entertain me.  So, after several more web searches and the decision to make another sandwich, I finally lead myself to a video that would unleash many scenes that hit close to home.  That video was called: "Episode One - Here Comes Honey Boo Boo Child".

For those of you who don't know, which is probably most of you with self respect and dignity, Honey Boo Boo is a 6 year old beauty queen and now, a reality starlet.  Her family, who lives in the heart of Georgia, represents every Southern stereotype on the planet.  Whether they are rolling in the mud, eating dead animals from the road or making babies in a teenage uterus, they bleed Southern Pride.

(White Trash Royalty - The Honey Boo Boo Family!)

This family is what many of you would called "white trash" but for me, I see them as visual comfort food that I devour intently with my retinas.  As the scenes flashed by, I felt warm and cozy inside because I, too, know the joy of dipping my unwashed feet in the waters of a bacteria filled river. I placed no judgement upon their poor eating habits, open displays of flatulence or inability to properly conjugate verbs, I just simply wanted more.  

(If a dollar makes her holler, one can't help but wonder what a five makes her do.)

I must admit that as I watched Honey Boo Boo in all her glory, I realized that a new era is being ushered in.  The "white trash" way of living is finally grooming a new queen.  One that will take hold and reign supreme over her drunken, faithful following. Long gone are the days of Anna Nicole (may she RIP), Paula Deen (may her career RIP) and dare I say, Britney Spears (may her unwashed hair weave RIP).  

Honey Boo Boo or Alana, as she was anointed at birth, will now lead us all down a path of righteousness and I can only hope that she is capable of bearing that cross. As soon as that child uttered out the words, "A dolla' makes me holla'!", I knew that we were on to something special and finally a voice of reason was here to ensure that the South would rise again.

(It was fun while it lasted, Brit Brit!)

Many have said that Honey Boo Boo is a new aged Savior. And, by many, I mean 3 of the 4 voices within my head. Nonetheless, the world has been waiting on someone to take us out of the doldrums and into prosperity and that person's name is the combination of a sugary bee concoction and a double dose of the phrase that ghosts use to scare us.

So, with her wealth of witty phrases, wide array of fashionable costumes and love for caring for non-gender specific animals, I gladly hail our new Queen.  May she reign barefoot and free!

(In the name of the Father, Son, Honey Boo Boo, Amen!)

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Sunday, August 12, 2012

The Day that I Danced with Rihanna

"...we found love in a hopeless place..."

Yesterday started out like any normal Saturday.  I woke up, went to the gym, came home, cried in the shower and searched for a cupcake to absorb the calories that I had just lost. As I unwrapped a frosting coated delicacy from the comfort of my own bed, I could have never imagined what happened next.

Out of nowhere, a friend called and invited me to her housewarming party.  I begrudgingly accepted the invitation with the promise of free alcohol and microwaveable pizza snacks. As I arrived, I headed straight for the liquor and walked passed a group of rhythmically challenged individuals who were bumping and grinding to what seemed like an endless remix of "Please Don't Stop the Music".  

As I judged them with my eyes, I gathered together a delightful array of lukewarm pizza rolls and poured myself a potentially lethal concoction of alcohol into a plastic cup.  I then leaned against a wall and looked on as I stuffed my face with abnormal amounts of formerly frozen food.

(There's nothing quite like a good, pizza roll.)

As I placed the last of my delicious snacks into my mouth and washed it down with a mixture of high grade vodka and mouthwash, I felt a hand caress my arm.  Obviously attracted by the scent of my discount store cologne, I looked over to see who it was and there she stood.  Right in front of me was none other than Rihanna.  Yes, THE Rihanna.  Not some half-hearted, street hooker look-alike but rather the reigning pop queen, Rihanna.

I choked a little bit on my drink and introduced myself to my Barbadian princess. "Uhhh, hello!", I stammered but she just quietly put her finger to her mouth and whispered "Shhh!"  

(Talk that talk? No. Just be quiet!)

Just then, multiple renditions of her chart topping songs hit the airwaves and she pushed me against the wall, climbed against my fragile frame and wrapped her legs tightly around my waist.  As the music pulsated, she began dancing and flailing around in that uniquely Caribbean dance style that many people confuse for dry humping.  

(My delicate island flower dancing her assets off.)

As the music reached its' fever pitch and my thighs were moments away from giving in to the pressure being thrust upon them, a car drove straight through the front door.  Horrified, I grabbed my little island love and tossed her down a flight of stairs to avoid her being hit by the car.  As I turned around, I saw the car coming straight for me and then...

I woke up!  Covered in the remnants of a half-eaten cupcake and the slobber that can only be created from a deep sleep, I realized that it had all been a distant dream.  Desperate to try and recreate my famous dream encounter, I kept trying to force myself back to sleep.  Sadly though, the closest that I could get was a version where Rihanna morphed into Oprah and we had a fight over the last slice of dessert at a Pizza Hut buffet. 

Choosing to avoid that nightmare, I rolled over, licked some icing from my hand and forced myself to join the world of the awake again.  Oh well, RiRi, it was good while it lasted.

(Dessert Pizza is one of my favorite things!!!)

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Thursday, August 9, 2012

Alarmed and Dangerous

"...ring the alarm, I been through this too long..."

It's just not natural. As you lay comfortable and warm in your bed, a number flicks over on a hatefully designed machine. A noise is then triggered that is so heinous that it curls up inside of your being and makes you rage with anger.

Or, maybe that's just me.

I hate alarm clocks. It may stem from the fact that I have always had issues with insomnia or it could be because I am not fond of a tiny device raging at me so early in the morning that God isn't even awake yet.

(I said "SNOOZE", Mother F-cker!)

The fact that we, as human beings, have become accustomed to using these things makes me feel like we are some sort of caged animal involved in a really messed up science experiment. I just don't feel like we are meant to be the routined, structured beings that we have become.

And, don't get me wrong, I am the worst. At any given moment during my early morning rituals, in which I sculpt each strand of my hair with just the right amount of gel, I can look over at the clock and it will be the same exact time as the previous day. I'm seemingly stuck in a perpetual twilight zone, in which every moment is repeated over every single day. It's not ok.

(Is it time to break free?)

But, how do we change it? I've contemplated training a lovely, little dove to fly through my window each morning. After she sat down the beautifully crafted McMuffin that she had carried in her tiny beak, she would then chirp a pitch-perfect melody of love songs from the early 1970's.

Once I heard the final chorus of a delightfully chirped rendition of (They Long To Be) Close To You by The Carpenters, I'd open my eyes, welcome the sunshine and devour my breakfast in peace. I'd then thank my little dove, who by now I would have named "Dove-yoncé", and she'd fly away into the blue skies diligently preparing tomorrow's playlist.

But, obviously, I am not delusional. I know that training a dove would take years of practice and a series of auditions that I just don't have time for.

In the meantime, I will just wake up disgruntled each morning. But, please do me a favor, if you ever wake up anywhere near me, just give a "Good Morning" nod and let's save the polite chit chat for lunch time.

(If you guys need me, I'll be in a coma.)

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Sunday, August 5, 2012

Flipper's Fabulous Cousin

In the Amazon, there is an amazing creature that flips, squeals and uses its' blowhole to entertain the masses. No, not Tarzan. I'm talking about the elusive pink dolphin.

When I made my way to the Southern Colombian city of Leticia in January, I was told to keep an eye out for these magnificent mammals. Apparently, they could be very shy and you had to maintain a keen lookout because they could emerge at any moment and then disappear just as quickly.

There are many theories about why these dolphins have a pink hue. The scientific explanation is that their capillaries are closer to the surface of their skin than other dolphins and therefore, the blood flowing is what causes the pink color. The street explanation is that they are all just fabulous.

As I explored the Amazon River, I was told two myths involving these dolphins. The first is that they are a sort of "shape shifter" that spend their days as loveable dolphins but when night comes, they transform into handsome men and beautiful women and go into local villages, mate and create illegitimate children. And, to think, you thought the guy at the club who could balance a ball on his nose or the girl with the perfect skin that water could bead off of were just visiting from the local circus.

(In retrospect, was this kid wearing a mask for fun or to hide his pink snout?)

The second myth was one in which the local women of the Amazon would trick the pink dolphins into emerging from under the waves. It is said that if a woman is on her menstrual cycle, she could swim in the waters and the dolphins would begin to jump with glee because they are huge fans of monthly cleansing and eating tubs of ice cream.

After learning so much about these fascinating animals, I couldn't wait to see them. We spent the entire day in a tiny boat scouring the river for a chance to spot our pink friends but as the day grew long and the sun was soon to set, it seemed as if our chances were growing slim.

Recognizing that our day was almost done, the tour guide offered us all a chance to jump in the river for a quick swim. I am not a fan of anacondas, piranhas or the horrific candiru fish that calmly swims up your urethra and lodges itself there, so I didn't even entertain the idea of getting in. But, the two girls of the group decided to go for a swim. As the murky, brown water swirled around them, I did feel a twinge of jealousy that I didn't take advantage of this opportunity but ensuring that my genitals weren't amputated because of a fish was far more important to me.

(The evil candiru that follows a warm urine stream and then sets up shop in your urethra.)

When the girls finished their swim, we got underway and headed back to civilization. As the boat sped down the vast river, dodging logs and other boats along the way, we saw it. In the distant, a pink blur appeared before us. The boat driver noticed and quickly steered us in that direction. Directly in front of us, two pink dolphins were basking in the remnants of the day's sunshine. As I snapped photos, I looked on in complete awe. I couldn't believe that I had been in the Amazon and been able to see this. It was truly a special experience.

As the dolphins disappeared under the water, we started the boat up and got on our way again. We all sat together, amazed by what we had seen and without a moment of forethought or appropriate hesitation, I turned to the girls and blurted out, "Oh wait! Which one of you is on her period?"

(The girls taking a dip in the Amazon.)

Looking back, it was obviously inappropriate to ask but how else were we going to bust that myth?

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Thursday, August 2, 2012

Don't Have a Cow!

For those of you outside of the US or living under a rock, there has been a huge uproar revolving around the fast food chain, Chik-Fil-A and the owner’s comments that he believes in the “traditional family”. It has inspired many debates about gay rights, freedom of speech and one’s right to choose where he or she spends money. It has also done a fine job of perpetuating the false stereotype that all Southern people are ignorant and tied down by their religious preferences. However, it has done nothing against disproving the stereotype that we get really pissed off when you bring fried chicken into a debate.

I think we need to look at it from both sides. So, let’s start with the Christian, more Conservative stance. It needs to be said that there is absolutely nothing wrong with not agreeing with gay marriage. Just like there is nothing wrong with being against abortion or women’s pant suits. If you honestly feel that two people coming together in a legal union to express their love for one another is somehow going to impinge upon your rights then, by God, you are right to be against it. However, please stop arguing that homosexual unions will ruin the sanctity of marriage. Newt Gingrich did that by cheating on a sick wife, Britney Spears deleted that sentiment by marrying some guy for 48 hours in Las Vegas and many of you scandalous fools on my Facebook fail to remember your promiscuous pasts as you quote scripture on Facebook. On a personal note, God doesn't have a Facebook account, so if someone doesn't hit "like" on a photo of Jesus saving a lamb, they are not going to go to hell.

(Holy Cow!)

You see, Chik-Fil-A tends to miss the mark a bit when it comes to supporting its’ opinion. Not because they are a faith-based organization expressing religious views but rather because they donate money to anti-gay causes. Spewing hatred, rather directly or through your money, is not the sort of Christianity that I want to believe in. However, if supporting this cause is your thing, please do it through other means rather than purchasing an over-priced chicken sandwich that has that one lingering pickle that you’ll end up tossing out of the window anyways. I just will never get over people rallying around a freaking chicken sandwich! That's like saying, "I am against sanctions in Iran! Therefore, I have given up Hostess Snack Cakes!" It makes no sense.

Now, we venture to the other side of things, where we have those raging against the Conservative agenda. You need to take a deep breath, turn off whatever episode you are watching of “The Real Housewives…” franchise and realize that not everyone is going to love the gays. And, that is ok. Many people are averse to glitter, good fashion sense and damn good pop music and that is their right. So, just because someone says that they are for a “traditional family”, it doesn’t mean that they hate you. Unless of course they donate money to an organization that wishes you were dead and then, they do hate you.

So, for every person who disagrees with Chik-Fil-A’s affiliations, you have the right to simply turn your head away as you drive past and a whiff of those delectable waffle fries fills the car. You may stop and think that no one is looking but stay strong because your moral fiber is now hanging on a delicate balance that could easily be tipped by a warm chicken biscuit dipped in just the right amount of honey.

When you put all of this into perspective, it really is silly. The US economy is tanking, jobless rates are through the roof and Kim Kardashian is dating Kanye West. Obviously, there are bigger fish or, in this case, chickens to fry. Why people sit around and contemplate others peoples’ home lives, I will never understand. I have to be honest, I have never once laid in my bedroom and pondered if the people next to me were gay or straight or if they were in a committed, loving relationship or not. Sure, we had just had a raucous three-way but their relationship status was none of my business. I just wanted them to hurry up and leave, so that I could eat more chicken.

I see both sides of the coin and on some level, I support both sides. So, let's agree to disagree. Let’s extend an olive branch coated in yummy chicken grease, America. Sure, it may be hard to hold on to but just like bringing both sides together, it just takes a little bit of effort and a combined love of lard. So, come on, let’s all get together, eat some fried chicken and join greasy hands as we sing in unison. Is that so much to ask, America?

(Hey Cow Hey!)

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