Soapbox

Funeral Arrangements

An open letter to Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church

Dear Mr. Phelps-
Today I bought a cute  little black dress
to wear to the funeral of whoever it is that died
and made you Jesus.

After all- at least with the Pope an entire college of cardinals have to vote
in order for him to be called God's Voice here on earth.
You seem to have elected yourself Pope of the World,
exhaulted above all others by virtue of being
the only one who somehow was able to suss out,
hidden in among all that New Testament crap about "love" and "peace",
and turning cheeks and judging not,
that God's true top priority for mankind was:
hitting on chicks.

Now me, I don't see why, if God hates fags so much
they weren't included in his famous Top 10 list.
Surely, if homosexuality is such a deal-breaker
it would rank above mere coveting!
But it never even got a "thou shalt not"
or made the final cut as a deadly sin.
Most of the rest of us were fooled by this, but you-
you have the discerning mind, the vision
to know that what God cares about most is
persecuting people who don't persecute gays.

And the true profits are always reviled, aren't they?
The KKK says that they repudiate your activities
(though I wonder which activities they object to-
the activity where you show up at churches and cemeteries
and attack grieving families for the sin of careing about, well, anything besides homosexuality-
or the part where you don't lynch people or tie them to car bumpers?)

Tell me Mr. Phelps, how does it feel to be so low on the evolutionary scale
that even the KKK won't be seen with you
for fear you'll make them look bad?
You and your followers are the child-molesters of the religious crazy world:
the ones even the father-rapers and mother-stabbers
would shank in the shower if they got a chance.

But are you filled with hate- or fear?
Are you evil, or incredibly stupid- or cunningly calculating?
Or, is it possible that you truly know not what you do?
On Judgment Day, will God call you up to the throne and say
"Fred, who the hell died and made you me??"
and smite you with an iron fist of justice?
Or will He put a gentle hand on your head, sigh,
and guide you to the place of eternal healing
where sad, tortured souls are at last washed cleaned?

I do not know the answer to that question.
I only know that each time I simply speak your name
I feel the urgent need to gargle.
And I have my little black dress ready, either way.