I’m madder than a professional ball player being sent to the minors for boycotting stores that sexualize minors over the way the left are forcing us to swallow their rainbow-flavored Kool-Aid.
Why just the other day, I was at my local grocery store picking up some free range inflationary chicken wings and Bud Lights for my best friend Mr. Wong’s birthday BBQ when the cashier asked me if I wanted to support the trans kids.
“Is that a band?” I asked, smoothing my receding rocker hair under my Toronto Blue Jays baseball cap.
The cashier, a young woman with purple hair, a deep voice, and prominent Adam’s Apple, looked at me like I just fell off a UFO from Melmac and said, “Trans kids are kids who are born into the wrong body and need gender-affirming surgery to save them.”
I pulled out a wad of bills to pay for my two items, “That sounds like a science fiction movie.”
“It’s very real,” the masculine ladyboy answered. “I figured since you were buying Bud Light that you supported our cause.”
With perfect comedic timing, I smiled and replied: “I see. Well, after writing for network television on the iconic ALF series for one and a half seasons, I think I know an alien when I see one, dear.” I plucked my six pack of golden piss water out of her tensed man hands and headed out to my Ford F-150.
THE CLIMATE IS CHANGING
When I arrived at Mr. Wong’s B-day bash, I cracked open a beer and within my first sip I was approached by two men in tank tops who asked me if I would be attending the Drag Queen after party later.
“I would, but I lost my library card fellas,” I said, laughing at my insightful cultural observation cleverly disguised as a joke.
Another woman, who had a buzz cut and wore a Hawaiian shirt, asked me how long I’d been dating Mr. Wong.
“What? Mr. Wong!!! I’m married to a WOman,” I shouted, already feeling the effects of the Bud Light swirling through my veins. “What’s the mRNA content in these things, anyway?”
I found Mr. Wong grilling some tofu dogs and beyond meat burgers and opened another Bud Light.
“Toby,” Mr. Wong said, “I was wong about you. I see that you’re finally supporting us left wingers by drinking delicious Bud Light, with Pride!”
I looked at the can, which had an image of a vaguely feminine looking man with a five o’clock shadow.
“I’m drinking Bud because I’m getting a bit thick around the gut,” I smiled motioning towards my slightly tight ‘relaxed fit’ denim pants. “Most pops out there have too many carbs and Greta is on me about looking trim for our trip to Key West later this summer.”
“Bud Light supports LGBTQ2I+ community,” said Mr. Know-It-All. “So by drinking it, obviously you support them too.”
All the sudden I realized the thing missing from my beer was a sausage, like the metaphorical one being jammed down my throat. I placed my Bud on a picnic table and looked around. Mr. Wong’s birthday party was no party. Rainbow and trans flags, political signs for woke politicians and even a donation box for funding kids to get their bits chopped off. It was a gay bash! I don’t care if this gets me canceled, but to be honest the whole scene was out of one of those old History Channel Nazi Party rallies—in RAINBOW COLOR.
“How is drinking a beer supporting a cause?” I fumed to my best friend. “Do we now allow corporations to dictate our beliefs?”
Mr. Wong reiterated how corporations like Bud Light and Target are supporting the Pride Movement and that by not supporting them means you’re not supporting the movement.
The whole explanation was a woke word salad with cheese that only a liberal could stomach.
RAINBOW IS THE NEW BLACK… LIVES MATTER
When I arrived home—half in the bag— Greta was watching the final inning of a baseball game where all the players were whored out in rainbow flag coloured uniforms.
“A switch hitter had been kicked out earlier for not posing for a pic with some drag queens,” she said in disgust.
“I don’t know what’s going on with you people,” I said. “What the hell was in those vaccines!?!”
Greta just turned away from me back to the ball game on the the boobtube. “Oh, dear,” she said dismissively. “You’re just going through Man-o-pause.”
“You’re damn right I am! This man needs a pause!”
I stormed to my room and packed my belongings. I had to find a place for the rest of the month to get away from all this. I couldn’t take another minute of the rainbows, the trans kids, the identification with corporate America, the drag queens, and woke Liberals, and the totalitarian state that somehow extolled that I needed to unquestioningly accept a nut jobs “lived experience” to be a valued member of society.
I packed up my car and drove the rest of the night and into the wee morning hours. But everywhere was the same. City Hall’s and schools with Pride flags, crosswalks replaced with rainbows, banks and businesses that replaced American flags with pro-LGBTQLMNOP messaging. Even my car radio had been broken by the woke social corrosion. All my favorite Conservative talk radio shows had been converted to supporting Target in their time of need, and amplifying the voices of activists who vowed to cancel anyone who questioned the narrative with softball interviews.
Days later, desperate and alone, I found refuge in a secluded spot deep, deep in a Quebec forest. Here I would be safe, I thought. I built a shelter out of dry logs and leaves, lit a fire and decided to rid myself of anything that represented the insane Pride movement. I burned my Jays cap and then my denim flex waist pants. I poured the rest of my Bud Lights all over the forest. Take that conman on the can!
As I drove home, with no pants, I felt hopeful that the gay climate agenda would cool down when I got back—but couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t properly extinguished the fire of Pride.
