Julie Gentron and the Lady League, Vol. 1, Ep. 4: The Homosexual!

22 02 2012

Written by Brandon Arkell and Seth Gordon Little

Last time on the Lady League, the ladies were spreading their legs and lighting up London’s nighttime skyline with a blast of super-powered lady plasma, in preparation to confront the dreaded Plastic Demon.

The suite was decorated in whimsical turn-of-the-century art nouveau decor, with a view of the Eiffel Tower through great French doors which opened up on to the balcony. Oswald’s young, handsome male assistant, Frederick, was tidying papers at a desk in front of the main window.

“I’m bored of Paris”, groaned Oswald, clutching a voluminous goblet of wine and gazing outside the window. “Why do I even bother? It farms fashion trends like a soccer mom chugs corporate coffee. All of those simpering mules strolling by—they think they’re the cat’s meow, but, honestly, their City of Lights has grown dim in my eyes, and its fashion, stale.” Frederick turned his head from his work and nodded vacantly in agreement. “They’re nothing more than a bunch of dime-store papier-mâché drag queens strutting their sad plastic corpses down a worn-out catwalk. And now we’re faced with another fashion horror—this new ‘plastique’ line. It’s all over the magazine covers–Vogue, Marie Claire, even Harper’s—a glittering pile of garish, costumey garbage-bags plucked out of The Wizard of Oz or Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. What’s wrong with a simple, classic dress? Stick with the basics, I say.” Here he paused briefly, swirling the wine inside his goblet meditatively. “For the life of me, I can’t figure out what the designer’s true identity is. All we know is her initial, ‘P’, but I want to know the true P, what makes her tick, what makes her build such clownish garments, what makes people fawn like puppies at such horrid sartorial monstrosities.” Frederick nodded.

“I need new surroundings, fresh inspiration!” cried the stuffy queen, throwing the emptied wine goblet at the fire-place. “Pick that up”, he said to Frederick, who hurriedly scooped up the shards of glass on the edge of the fireplace, burning himself slightly but keeping his pain to himself. “I crave the shapes, colours, and sounds of avant garde Berlin, wild, exotic Africa, remote, mystical Asia! What I need is a new muse.”

“Racist”, mumbled Frederick under his breath, swabbing his wound and shuffling papers at the desk.

“What was that?!” cried Oswald. “You’re my assistant, wretch, not my sociology professor!” He slapped Frederick with the back of his hand, which was adorned with a large, chunky ring. “I’m paying you to help me write about fashion—and pleasure me—not lecture me on stereotypes!”

“Yes, Mr Oswald”, said Frederick obsequiously, pawing at his abused cheek.

Suddenly there was an explosion of sparkle and glitter as the double doors burst open to reveal Julie Gentron and the Lady League, shrouded in a ball of lady-light. Lupa the Land-Whale clumsily smashed in through the window and tumbled over the desk, lolling about on the ground. Frederick tumbled out of his chair, overcome with shock and amazement. Expensive antique cocktail displays with colourful negro caricatures from the nineteen-twenties, among other accoutrements, were thrown to the floor in the commotion. Oswald dived behind a divan and covered his head.

“Sweet tits of Mary!” screamed the queen.

“Lady League, pose!” cried Julie, stationing herself in the middle of the hotel suite. The ladies gathered themselves and spread their legs in a buffalo stance at Julie’s side. Lupa joined the posse, spreading his stocky legs and placing his fore-fins on his thick hips. His head brushed up against the chandelier, sending a few tear-drop crystals to the floor.

“What in the name of God’s jugs are you—you praying mantises??” cried Oswald, peeking out from behind the divan at the ghastly menagerie before him. “And what is that horrible, gigantic turnip-thing?!” he cried, pointing at Lupa. Lupa lowered his head with shame and frowned. There was a pause, which gave Oswald enough time to analyse their wardrobes. “What’s that??” he hissed, pointing at Donna’s outfit.

“It’s from last season’s Halloween rack at the Bay”, said Donna, looking down at her outfit self-consciously. “It’s kind of retro trashy kitsch, isn’t it?”

“I know what it is, you minx!” grumbled the insufferable bitch. “It’s a throwback to some tacky twentieth century superheroine T.V. series. How gauche. And besides, it’s badly tailored. Look at the seams. And the theme is poorly incorporated into the piece as a whole.” He looked at Frederick for approval. Frederick nodded hesitantly, but turned and glowered.

“Why are you so ruthless??” cried Donna, observing poor Frederick’s reaction. “I thought that the fashion world was full of rainbows, baby-dust, unicorns, and—”

“—and the genius of Simpson Oswald!” cried the queen. He assumed an evangelical tone. “If I were a unicorn,  my aim would be to search out the kind of trash you’re wearing and impale it on my horn of truth! The world of fashion has no room for the lies which you parade.” He stopped and took a few moments to breathe and regain his bearings.

“Sweetie”, said Donna, drawing on a mysterious reservoir of courage, “your world of understated, black-and-grey business wear isn’t fit for a Louisiana trailer park. I Googled you, you prissy little bitch. I’ve seen the garments you made in the fashion department at Oklahoma City Community College. They say one thing: stale, dull, and conservative!” Oswald gasped and cringed in horror.

“That’s three things”, Rosalind said.

“Oh. Yeah. Three things”, Donna said, correcting herself.

“Why, you impudent child!” cried Oswald

“You heartless queen!” returned Donna.

“Girl, I’ll claw you to pieces!”

“Bitch, I’ll crush your queeny ass with one flick of my Lee Press-On Nail!”

Donna and Oswald began to tango, but Donna’s psychokinetic powers got the best of him, trapping him in the pose of a retarded gay Egyptian hieroglyph. He grunted as he fought helplessly against her stranglehold over him. She grinned smugly. Lupa began stamping the ground, flapping his fins up and down and cooing in protest. Another window-pane broke.

“Donna! Mr Oswald!” cried Julie, pressing her breasts outward and assuming an imposing stance. It was enough to cause Lupa to cower, knowing that Julie was the alpha. Donna desisted, and Oswald fell back, regaining his senses. He turned his eyes to Julie.

“Your outfit, on the other hand, is impeccable”, he said, gazing at Julie’s body like a sexually disinterested homosexual infatuated with clothing, “a flawless, streamlined melding of apparel and physique.”

“That’s because you designed it”, said Julie, impatient but flattered.

“I designed this masterpiece??” screamed the queen in disbelief.

“How quickly they forget when they sell their genius for a profit”, said Rosalind contemptuously. “Doesn’t it suit her? She’s a cyborg, after all.”

“Wh–wh–wh–what? One of those icky cyborg things? In my Paris hotel suite? Why on earth?”

“We’re here to save your puny little twig-armed white man’s arse—that’s why!” boomed Rosalind, channelling Grace Jones. Her strong, muscular body glimmered momentarily with a metallic sheen. Julie and Donna nodded in agreement.

“Save me from what?” Oswald was agog.

“Mr Oswald, let me introduce myself”, said Julie with a confident sweep of her shoulders. “I am Julie Gentron, and together my friends and I form the Lady League, a special branch of the Secret Intelligence Service devoted to defending the earth against galactic criminals.”

“Indeed! Except for that one”, he said, glowering at Donna. “Do you always let small-town drag queens follow you around like overly primped puppy dogs?” At this, Donna threatened him with her fingernails; he resumed his station behind the divan, cringing at the psychokinetic mutant.

“Do you always prance around like some useless Project Runway contestant who dropped out of community college with nothing but a pink cotton tank top with a skull-and-crossbones Hello Kitty graphic for a portfolio?” returned Donna, leering at him triumphantly. Lupa remonstrated against Oswald and Donna’s exchange with a low, almost subsonic moan, and the song seemed to have an effect on them, as they began to relax. No-one but Lupa seemed to notice.

“Ladies, please!” cried Julie, standing between the two. Lupa’s big, limpid blue eyes smiled with relief. “This display of oestrogen will get us nowhere. Let’s get to the point of this meeting. Mr. Oswald, we believe that your life is in danger. I realise this must be hard for you to accept, but you must believe me when I tell you that a malevolent and powerful she-thing is working to turn members of the fashion élite into mindless plastic-surgery drones, and you may be her next target.”

“Ba! No one touches Simpson Oswald, least of all some Rubbermaid robot from the Tupperwear Galaxy!” laughed Oswald smugly, dismissing them with a flail of his limp wrist. “I haven’t heard such a farfetched conspiracy theory since Coast to Coast AM said that evil, shape-shifting harp seals were infiltrating the Canadian Parliament. My dears, if I don’t attend this fashion show, I’ll have nothing to say in my next column.” He stopped and scanned Julie. “Why, that’s it! You just hate me—you want to kill my career! The only foe I see is in your jealousy, you viper! If you insist upon hounding me, I shall call for security to remove you and the rest of your wicked brood from my premises.”

“Sir, that is absurd!” said Julie passionately. The other ladies, including Lupa, backed up respectfully. “We don’t wish to destroy your career—the plastic fiend does! If you refuse our help, your entire career will be co-opted by P, who wants to assimilate you! That is why we are here. To help you. To defend you against P. The combined powers of the Lady League are the only way to protect you from this sorceress. Now, if you’ll just—”

“—Very well. I see that your arrogant, heaving bosoms will not desist. Frederick!” he said, summoning his cowering assistant from behind the desk. “Telephone!” Frederick brought Oswald a telephone in the likeness of a statuette depicting a woman in the act of inserting a pear into her bottom. With apparent indifference to this image, Oswald opened up the telephone and turned the rotary dial. A French voice answered.

“Oui. This is Mssr Simpson Oswald, Suite 405. Put me through to security. Security? Oui, Oswald here. What? Speak English. Yes, I’m afraid a throng of squatting harridans have stolen into my suite and wish to kidnap me. I am rather perturbed, naturally. They are quite persistent and flail about like octupi, insulting me and disturbing my evening cold-cream regimen. Will you please send—Allo? Allo?! I demand that you furnish me with sufficient personnel to evict these—”

“—Your kind words beguile my heart, queen”, interjected a strangely soft, purring voice, as if from a synthesiser. The telephone chord silently stirred to life and wrapped itself round the fashion critic’s neck, cutting off the rest of his sentence. “With such sweet sentiment, you warm it to the core, to the hard, brilliant deposit of lust which drives the engine behind this vinyl visage of mine. For this reason I elect you as vice-queen of my holy plastic army. Enjoy wearing my new hot pink, patent leather catsuit with purple-feather epaulets, Sergeant Sodomite. Today is the last day you wear an American-style suit!”

“Wha–? Gak! Help! It’s choking me!”, gurgled Oswald, tearing at the cord round his neck. Frederick flailed in panic, trying desperately to unwrap the cord, but the Lady League acted without hesitation and took over.

“Girls, waste no time!” cried Julie. The skin under her silver body-suit began to squirm; her subcutaneous weapons were preparing for the assault. “It’s the plastic demon trying to take control of objects in her environment. She must be nearby.”

“I hate to side with old dumpy bottoms here”, cried Rosalind, leering at Donna, “but the world is at stake.”  She leaped at the possessed telephone, grasping the receiver in one hand and the cord in the other. “Quick, Donna! Help me get this thing off this tired old queen’s neck!” She had more trouble than usual unwrapping the telephone cord from around Oswald’s neck given her superhuman strength. Obviously some other force was at work.

“Hey! Truck-lady!” said Donna, placing her hands on her hips. “Go grease up something with holes and pistons. If you think I’m going to help save ‘Oklahoma Male Weekly’ over there, with her queen-bee attitude, you’ve got another thing coming. Ass pirate,” she sneered at Oswald. He returned the look.

“Donna! Rosalind!” cried Julie. “We have no time for petty jealousy. For once, stop with your taunting and concentrate your powers! Now! I must rely on you two while I focus on disarming the device.” She stood erect, closing her eyes and pressing her chest outward. Donna half-heartedly followed her captain’s lead by unfolding her arms and dropping her buttocks down on top of the phone’s carriage, burying it within her cheeks. The signal sputtered.

“I’ll admit,” said Rosalind, trying to tear the cord from the queen’s neck, “Donna’s got a point. He’s a cunt. Even if we do convince him that we’re protecting him, what good will it do us? Donna’ll probably end up killing him with her bare hands anyway.” She began to wrap her hands around Oswald’s neck, her fingers intertwined with the cord.

“Girls, I’m surprised at you!” said Julie. “Especially you, Rosalind! We aren’t here to pass judgement on this man! He’s being strangled by a telephone cord, for goodness’ sake!”

“He seems to find no qualms in passing judgement himself”, said Rosalind, increasing her stranglehold. The poor man’s eyes bulged.

“And he’s such a bitch!” said Donna, gliding her fingernails over the poor queen like hovering reconnaissance aircraft.

“God damn it!” screamed Julie, the circuits of her suit suddenly lighting up in response to her mental state. “That’s no excuse! He may be a cold-blooded, ruthless lizard, but that doesn’t mean he deserves to die!”

“Help me, please!” gurgled Oswald. “I’m sorry I was such a supercilious cunt. Maybe I’m wrong about the use of colour and texture—pastels and crushed velveteen are not fashion faux pas! A smokey eye with a dark-red lip is not overdoing it! I give up! Just save me!” Rosalind looked upward snootily, and Donna bore into Oswald’s eyes with a disapproving glower.

“Girls, stop!” said Julie. “We’ll discuss this another time! Donna, stop sitting on the receiver. Use your psychokinetic power to fight the demon!”

“Oh, right. Yeah. Duh!” said Donna, raising her buttocks from the receiver and placing her fingers to her temples. “Sorry for spacing out, Julie. I can do this. I can undo the fiend’s work.” She stood still and concentrated her powers on the cord wrapped around Oswald’s neck. Rosalind assisted by tearing at the cord, and Lupa sang a whale-song which nobody could hear. The cord snapped. Oswald fell back and scurried against the wall, gasping for air. Frederick ran forward to embrace Oswald, who turned him away with a tired groan. Confused, he ran over and embraced Donna, who returned the gesture with a soft pat on the head. Rosalind looked on at Donna approvingly for once, and Lupa stamped up and down, flapping his fins, tears welling up in his big, blue eyes.

“Good”, said Julie, nodding, “but we need more juice to defeat this thing! I’ll deploy a short-distance electromagnetic pulse to short-circuit the apparatus.” She stretched out her arms, her hands curled into fists, and shot forth a beam of gamma radiation that fried the telephone receiver. Meanwhile, Rosalind and Donna were ripping apart the remains of the telephone cord. Finally it dropped to the ground.

“Bahahahahaha!” cackled the sinister voice through the mangled, disconnected receiver. “Your powers may have succeeded in this small trial, Lazy League, but you have yet to defeat my many minions! Soon you shall witness the rise of the demon, and you shall bow at her feet! I’m not going to kill you. Oh, no. I have something far better in mind for you—the beauty of my sweet, immortal caress! Yes, that is right. You shall become like me—plastic!”

The lights flickered and dimmed, as if from a power surge, and all looked at each other in silence.

Stay tuned as the ladies hunt down the inscrutable plastic demon in the next instalment of Julie Gentron and the Lady League!

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Maureen Walsh on Marriage Equality in Washington State

13 02 2012

At 11:30 a.m. on Monday morning, 13 February 2012, as the raindrops slide down the sides of Seattle’s skyscrapers, Washington state is expected to legalise same-sex marriage when Governor Christine Gregoire signs into law a bill passed by the state Legislature. The fight for equality in Washington has been an incremental one, starting with an anti-discrimination law (2006) and moving on to a domestic partnership law (2007), which was later expanded and approved by voters (2009), until the Legislature finally passed the marriage equality bill (2012). Senator Ed Murray, D-Seattle, an openly gay man, has played an instrumental role in the process, having spent the last few years sponsoring bills to expand gay rights. But what do impassioned lawmakers have to say?

The struggle to pass the marriage equality bill has been anything but perfunctory. Thanks to the Internet and social networking, people around the world have had the chance to witness the powerful, heartfelt speeches given by Washington lawmakers who support the bill. Interestingly, some of those lawmakers are Republicans, showing that compassion for devoted same-sex couples crosses party lines and touches on core humanist principles. I think we should all acknowledge this basic common-sense empathy when it pops up in Republicans. Maureen Walsh, a Republican representative for Washington’s 16th District of Walla Walla (where yours truly happens to have some super-conservative religious relatives) proved for me that empathy crosses party lines:

This was an inspiring speech, and it’s no wonder it has more than a few Youtube commenters a little bit verklempt. But what we should note is how Walsh touches on the argumentum ad populum of gay marriage opponents, which states that a thing is good just because it is popular. She bravely and passionately communicates that a belief is good not because it is popular, but because it makes people happy. And she holds her fellow lawmakers accountable for making a rational, fair-minded decision (the way Thomas Jefferson would). Her message wouldn’t have had the same clout, though, had she not made it personal and intimate by recounting her relationship with her lesbian daughter, who, as she recalls, used to stand up for bullied children on the playground. She tells her fellow legislators,

My daughter stood up for that kid, [and] even though it wasn’t the popular thing to do, she knew it was the right thing to do. And I was never more proud of my kid than knowing she was speaking against the vocal majority on behalf of the rights of the minority. And to me, it is incumbent upon us as legislators in this state to do that. That is why we are here. And I shudder to think that if folks who have preceded us in history [had not done] that—frankly, I’m not sure I would be here as a woman. I’m not sure that other people would be here due to their race or their creed, and to me that is what’s disconcerting.

Walsh is right. A thing is not right just because it is popular; it is right because it is reasonable, and it takes a principled leader to stand up and say, “this is right, and here are the reasons why”. Would we have abolished slavery had it been put up to a popular vote? Probably not. Would we have approved women’s suffrage had it been put up to a popular vote? Probably not. Neither decision was decided by a popular public vote. There are reasons why we have lawmakers brooding over the rights of minority groups. They take it seriously.

Marriage equality has triumphed in Washington state in part because of people like Maureen Walsh, who, despite her Republican status, believes that every loyal couple deserves the equal protection of the law. Hopefully this will be expanded to include the rest of the United States and, eventually, the rest of the world. To facilitate this effort, what we shoud be doing is proving to people who are still sitting on the fence why gays and lesbians deserve these rights, and we can do this by breaking down fallacies like the appeal to popularity, the appeal to nature, the slippery slope argument, the “special rights” argument, the “homosexuality is a choice” argument, the “homosexuality is condemned in the Bible” argument, and others (many of which I refute in my blog entry “8 Reasons Why Homophobia Makes No Sense“). However, we also need to complement our appeal to reason with anecdotes about the legal and personal struggles of individual gay and lesbian couples. We need to appeal to both justice and mercy. That will change both hearts and minds.





A Young Feminist Decries the “Pink Stuff”

28 12 2011

A very serendipitous gift was bestowed on me on Christmas Day: a video of a little girl railing against gender stereotypes inside a toy store. I unwrapped a present, a book called Same Difference: How Gender Myths Are Hurting Our Relationships, Our Children, and Our Jobs (given me by my wonderfully open and progressive mother), and showed everybody the book, announcing the title for all to hear and accepting family photographs of myself, of course, with the cherished tome in hand. Noting my interest in the topic of gender theory, my elder brother showed me the video, which featured a girl named Riley critiquing the use of colour-coded gender stereotypes in marketing. This girl must have an IQ of 140, or if she doesn’t, she will when she grows up. She is precocious:

I love her! She’s like Lisa Simpson, and Lisa Simpson is like me. Watch this clip of Lisa Simpson, when she was me in, like, 1985 when I was seven years old:

Riley is a real-life version of Lisa—and me! Just like me at her age, she doesn’t buy into the marketing bullshit, and she makes no effort to hide her disgust with the crass commercialization of sex roles. It’s like she’s saying, “this stupid pink shit is fucked up, and it makes me want to vomit!” But, of course, she is a five year-old girl, so she doesn’t say that. What struck me as amazing was her reasoning abilities. She was able to create this abstract symmetry between what girls like and what boys like: “Some girls like superheroes, some girls like princesses; some boys like superheroes, some boys like princesses”. This is pretty sophisticated thinking for a five-or-six year-old.

Most amazing of all, I think, was this little girl’s ability to cut like a laser through the smoke and mirrors of the marketing industry and exclaim that “the companies who make these try to trick the girls into buying the pink stuff instead of stuff that boys want”. So now little Riley has not only identified the unfairness of pressuring girls into buying princesses and pressuring boys into buying superheroes, but she has pinpointed the commercial mechanism which exploits these gender stereotypes to achieve a profit. I’m sorry, but that is a brilliant observation for a child so small.

It’s interesting to note the way in which the father relates to his daughter in this video. The father seems to insist that boys can have pink if they want, but the daughter seems to insist that, while this is technically so, girls are still pressured into wanting the pink princess crap while the boys are pressured into wanting the blue superhero crap. And, if we think about it, that’s true. Even if our children technically can buy cross-gender toys, they are very strongly admonished against doing so. There are social consequences to it, and little Riley is struggling in the midst of this gender fracas. At the same time, I commend Riley’s father for being a true father and taking the time to nurture his child by listening to her words, acknowledging her wisdom, and taking her to the toy store himself in the first place. Not many fathers would do even that much.

This reminds me of my childhood, which was raped away by the horrid spectre of a stepfather who hated women, black people, and gay people. Until 1986, when I turned 8, I was allowed to play with “girl stuff” as much as I wanted—both my parents were mild, good-natured, common-sensical people, if a bit religious and conservative—but once my mother divorced my father and married this odious troll from the American south, everything changed. She had to try to accommodate his stupid scruples, which included the immediate eviction of any gynaecoid play-thing. Suddenly, as boys, we weren’t allowed to play with anything that resembled women (or what women were thought to be). We were allowed to watch She-Ra: Princess of Power, but we were no longer allowed to play with the action figures themselves:

I thought that She-Ra was hot! And by hot I don’t mean sexually exploitable; I mean sexually confident. This woman was a sexual agent. She was in control, and for that reason she was admirable. But for some stupid reason, my stepfather hated the idea of his stepsons watching cartoons of women dodging lasers and throwing men over their shoulders. He hated the idea of boys liking “girl things”, and, on top of that, the idea that those “girl things” involved girls who wielded power. But every faggot loves that shit. It was all just too much of a mindfuck for his dessicated brain to handle. This is the type of gender-stupidity that I think little Riley is railing against in her father’s video.

Little Riley is an inspiration. She gives us a lesson. She is a tiny girl who helps us remember how both girls and boys can be hurt by rigid gender roles. Parents should not tell their daughters that they should like only princesses and pink stuff, and they should not tell their sons that they should like only superheroes and blue stuff. Because, even at an age as young as Riley’s, the stupidity and oppressiveness of these roles are apparent. And if you want to play the biological determinist card, I entreat you to read Delusions of Gender: How Our Minds, Society, and Neurosexism Create Difference, by Cordelia Fine (who exposes the very recent, very cultural origin of the pink/blue phenomenon in her book). Reading that might make you think twice about how you treat your children. It’s all about what actually works for us as people who have to adapt to the demands of a modern world. It’s always been about that. Nothing else.





Top 15 Hot Cartoon Sluts of the ’80s!

1 11 2011

I’ve finally re-discovered this blog post. It’s so amazingly gay and obscure that it made me pregnant. With twins. It totally reminds me of growing up as a child in the ’80s. I remember most of these characters, so it all rings so true. They’re sluts! And proud of it! So they should be. They’re fucking awesome. It’s a rather fortuitous conclusion: the toy and cartoon franchises of the ’80s had a preponderance of male characters, and to create a gender balance they had to include token females here and there, but the obvious implication was, who are those chicks gonna bang? Oh, shit! Everybody else.

Anyway, the post was originally written by somebody called Lahoma00, on the blog DListed, but I was so incensed at what I saw as a glaring omission of intolerable magnitude that I had to modify the post slightly and add a new winner in the #1 position, so actually this list ended up being the top 16 hot cartoon sluts of the ’80s. So, yeah, the new winner was chosen by me and written about by me (as well as the first sentence in the new #2). Oh, and anything in brackets was added by me, too, and I took the liberty of correcting punctuation where necessary. Appréciez, bitches!

#16 Madame Razz (She-Ra: Princess of Power)

Madame Razz always reminded me of Valerie Harper or Madge, the Palmolive lady who told you how well Palmolive cleaned your dishes AND your hands. Razz was that stupid bitch who was always fucking up her spells and talked like an old lady from New York. Here Madame Razz is seen causing disaster, as well as with her lovable companion Broom, who was a homosexual. Madame Razz was a fag-hag!

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#15 Lady Jaye (GI Joe: A Real American Hero)

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Lady Jaye was fucking hot! This bitch could kick your ass with her fists, a gun, or her javelin. In one episode she beat somebody with a handbag! My favorite episode was where she and the Baroness [who competes for the #1 position but got left out because I’m too lazy to add her] got kidnapped; they beat a bunch of robots while Lady Jaye was wearing business casual and Baroness was in a bikini!

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Here is Lady Jaye with her boyfriend Flint, but it was all a cover because we know she was a dyke. That’s why she was little boys’ favourite, because she was basically a guy herself! She wanted to fuck Cover Girl!

#14 Woolma Lamb (The Get Along Gang)

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Woolma was the snotty bitch of this group, always acting prissy and coming her hair. Once I was in a green room of a talk show and Joan Collins was there, primping and looking in the mirror. She reminded me of this bitch.

#13 Melodia (Silverhawks)

Melodia was one in a long string of MTV-inspired cartoon characters. All Melodia did was shriek a lot and play really shitty guitar in outer space. But her hair was hot! Glynne Headley would play her in the movie.

#12 LaLa Orange (Rainbow Brite)

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Look at this slut! She thought she was a fucking French lady with her beret but she’s nothing but a Parisian whore! She was always winking and trying to suck Red Butler’s dick!

#11 Carla (Kidd Video)

Kidd Video was seriously one of the hottest cartoons around: Four kids (including Cousin Oliver from The Brady Bunch) get sucked into a cartoon where they play rock n’ roll and run away from Master Blaster and his psycho cats! Carla was the Apollonia/Sheena Easton/Vanity wannabe. She was so hot because she said was from East L.A. and always wore her t-shirt with the shoulder exposed. I think she was a shitty singer!

#10 Jacqueline Stallone

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She wasn’t in a cartoon, but look at this bitch! She’s cazy!

#9 Pizzaz (Jem)

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How can this slut not be on it? Pizzaz was always trying to fuck with Jem’s career, causing destruction and chaos wherever she went. She was especially hot because her birth name was Phyllis Gabor. I loved when this bitch would try to steal Jem’s boyfriend, Eric. [Or was it Rio?] She thought she was so fucking sexy, but she looks like an alligator on crack!

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#8 Nanny (Muppet Babies)

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Nanny had the hottest legs in show business! You never saw this slut, but you know that she resembled Polly Holliday or Barbara Billingsley. [Plus, she was constantly competing with Miss Piggy, or “Piggy”, on this slutty cartoon show.]

#7 Brittany (Alvin and the Chipmunks)

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Brittany was hot because she wore Danskins and acted like a bitch all the time! What few of you sluts realize is that Brittany is single handedly responsible for the creation of Britney Spears! Just look at how Brit Brit was influenced by her.

The only difference was, Brittany was never pregnant white trash!

#6 Crasher (Challenge of the GoBots)

For so many years I thought Crasher was a gay guy. Then I realized he was a she! But it’s a thin line anyway, isn’t it bitches? Anyway, Crasher sort of looks like Pete Burns and has a British accent. She always would laugh hysterically after stepping on people and causing destruction, like she was having an orgasm. She was the first 80s cartoon character into S&M!

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#5 Cheetara (Thundercats)

Aside from beating people’s asses with her hot staff, Cheetara was a fucking porn star! Look at this picture from the first episode!

You can see her tits! I remember this freaked me out as a kid. It was the same sort of fascination and feeling when you’re doing something you are not supposed to, like looking at a copy of your brother’s (or mother’s) issue of Hustler. I think her tits freaked so many kids out that they became fags! Holy shit, the right wing needs to start blaming Cheetara for gay marriage!

#4 Catra (She-Ra: Princess of Power)

How could we not include this bitch? She was always trying to defeat She-Ra but would always end up in a puddle of water or something. Catra was so hot because, despite being able to turn into a cat herself, she used to get carted around by her cat Clawdeen. The bitch is so self-entitled!

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When you’d buy the action figure it described her as a “jealous beauty.” A few years ago some friends and I were going to start a band called CATRA: JEALOUS BEAUTY! Our first album was going to be called “Anxiety and Falcon Crest” [sic]. How hot would this whore be on the cover?

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#3 Evil Lyn (He-Man and the Masters of the Universe)

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The mother of all bitches! Every little boy was scared of her, unless they were gay in which case they wanted to be her! Evil-Lyn was Skeletor’s bitch but she really ran the roost. She always reminded me of Linda Dano. Look, isn’t the resemblance clear? Actually, Linda Dano sort of looks like Gozar from Ghostbusters.

Evil-Lyn is the only person on our list to be featured on the big screen in form of none other than the extremely scary MEG FOSTER. Meg, of course, is best known for her creepy eyes, Beverly D’Angelo wannabe look and for getting her ass fired from the Cagney and Lacey pilot! She’s so hot in the Masters of the Universe movie because she is a galactic conqueror and at one point kicks Courtney Cox’s ass!

#2 Bianca Dupree (Beverly Hills Teens)

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Bianca is so evil and prissy, she’s like a teenage cartoon version of Alexis Carrington, from Dynasty. Beverly Hills Teens was a ridiculous cartoon from 1987 about super-rich teens that all hung out at a country club and dated each other. Despite being loaded, they all wore the same fucking clothes everyday! Bianca was the rich bitch of the group and was so hot! She had a dog Fifi and a chauffeur Wilshire that loved her ass but she treated him like shit!

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Bianca was always scheming to break up supercouple Troy and Lark and get Troy for herself. Seen here is that trifecta of power, along with some irritating short kid.

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When I first met Michael K, one of the first things we talked about was how hot Bianca was! It bonded us forever. This is for you Michael K—long live Bianca!

#1 Smurfette (The Smurfs)

Holy shit! The choice was clear—Smurfette is #1! OK, so later in the series they introduced a little girl smurf called Sassette and an older, matronly smurf called Nanny Smurf, but until then Smurfette was the run of the town–if she wanted to get laid, she had the entire Smurf Village at her disposal. What a royal queen bitch! Good for her!

What makes Smurfette even more complex as a slut is that Gargamel made her in his stewpot as a decoy for the smurfs, and she originally had black hair, but she became blond when Papa Smurf worked a spell on her that made her into a real smurf, and she gained a certain conscience that allowed her to sympathise with the smurfs and learn to detest her creator. But she was still the only female smurf. Consequently, she wanted to fuck Brainy and Hefty and Dreamy and Clumsy and Grouchy and Jokey. And everybody else. Good for her!

The disgusting thing is that at least two of the three female smurfs (Smurfette and Sassette) were actually created as evil at first by Gargamel, as tools to tempt the male smurfs (whose reproductive apparatus, apparently, remains a mystery). How fucking sexist is that? But Smurfette is still a hot slut because she’s the prissiest, bossiest, baddest bitch in town, and she and Papa Smurf had the will to overcome Gargamel’s evil plot! And that’s why she is #1.

So there you have it: the top 15, er, 16, hot cartoon sluts of the ’80s, by Lahoma00 of DListed (and with help from moi)! Everything pink and pretty and frilly and teased and feathered and hairsprayed and overly made-up and clouded in cloying perfume has been encompassed in these precious female tokens of ’80s cartoon schlock. In a sense, it seems so blatantly sexist that the female characters are covered in feminine paraphernalia, but at the same time it seems kind of progressive for its time because they all tend to be pretty assertive and plucky and powerful, full of agility and ingenuity. As a boy, I always admired them as champions of the underdog. Gloria Steinem once said on this Youtube clip I once watched that women can find power in being sexual. She didn’t actually say that verbatim–I am trying to remember what she said exactly–but she basically acknowledged that women can leverage power through being sexual agents–as opposed to servants. Because, after all, traditionally, women have been sex-servants, no? Should they be? No. That’s the point.

So these hot cartoon sluts are iconoclasts! No, you can’t run in heels, but you can stab a rapist in the eyeball with a good steel stiletto. These girls can run, kick, punch, and look pretty all at the same time! There’s no good reason why they can’t be all of these things at once if they want to be. All they need is a gay make-up artist and a male nanny to take care of the little shit. And a supportive hag-fag when they have to pop one out of the oven. Ain’t a pretty sight. Somebody has to be there to say, “It’s OK”.





8 Reasons Why Homophobia Makes No Sense

26 08 2011

I’m usually pretty hard on gay men, because I think they tend to be a little bit vain and self-conceited. It’s one of those cases where minority members exploit their position by bemoaning their fate and eliciting pity through loud, obnoxious mirror-gazing antics. I even get a wee bit Ann Coulter-ish towards the gays sometimes, and that’s very hard for me to do. So you like dick? So what? The world doesn’t revolve around you and your crying penis. For these gays (for certainly not all gays are like this), everything is reducible to their own problems, which they constantly brood over in a desperate attempt at self-validation.

That said, gay people are still discriminated against in the United States and are bumping up against a particularly scary group of right-wing Christian dominionists campaigning for the presidency. Even though some gays act like whiney little bitches, none of them deserves to be denied their deceased partner’s Social Security benefits, equal treatment under the IRS tax code, or equal spousal immigration rights, among the many other federal protections they do not receive because they are attracted to members of the same sex.

For this reason, I would like to provide a comprehensive refutation of eight common arguments launched against homosexuality. These arguments, which I shall attempt to destroy one-by-one, can be summarized as follows: homosexual marriage goes against tradition; homosexuality is a choice; homosexuality is condemned in the Bible; homosexuality is unnatural; homosexuals cannot procreate; all men can marry women, and all women can marry men; if gays can marry, what’s next?; and what shall I tell my children?

1) “Marriage should be between a man and a woman, because it has always been this way.”

This fallacy is called an argumentum ad antiquitatem, or an appeal to tradition. It states that a thing is good because it is traditional, and bad because it is novel. But a thing is not necessarily good because it is traditional; it is good because it makes sense. At one time black people couldn’t marry white people in the United States, but this wasn’t right just because it was traditional. The law didn’t make sense, so we changed it to allow interracial couples (such as the current U.S. president’s parents) to marry and be happy together. Similarly, homosexuals cannot marry each other in most places, but this isn’t right just because it is traditional. The law does not work for homosexuals, so we should change it to allow same-sex couples to marry and be happy together. So, no, just because marriage has traditionally been a union of one man and one woman does not mean that it should be.

2) “Homosexuality is a choice.”

Usually you’ll argue, “The gay rights activists say that there’s a gay gene”. This is a big, fat straw man argument. Nobody with the faintest understanding of biology is arguing that there is a gay gene. What they are arguing is that there is no single gene for any sexual orientation. Rather, all sexual orientations are determined by a complex interaction of polygenic traits, with no single gene acting as the “signal” for whether you like fannies, pee-pees, or both. At the same time, I will concede that sexual orientation might have some environmental cause, because I am not a biological determinist, but, then, this would apply to heterosexuality too, right? So, no, you can’t say that homosexuality is a choice any more than you can say that heterosexuality is a choice.

3) “Homosexuality is condemned in the Bible.”

So what? The Bible is full of horribly offensive things. The Bible says you can sell your daughter into slavery to pay off a debt (Exodus 21:7). It also says you can execute people who cheat on their partners (Leviticus 20:10). But you wouldn’t do these things, would you? No, you wouldn’t, because these things are barbaric, tyrannical, and entirely incommensurate with the “crime” committed. Why, then, should you believe that homosexuals should be executed (Leviticus 18:22, 20:13)? “That was the old covenant”, you will say, but the new covenant required a human sacrifice in the form of Jesus Christ the avatar, so some form of blood-sacrifice and recompense is required to propitiate God. That’s just ruthless and bloodthirsty. And, besides, it still implies that dues need to be paid for the sin of homosexuality. And in the meantime, two adult women or men could be having the most loving, fulfilling consensual sex imaginable. Why, then, should we abide by such sanguinary, blood-soaked scriptures?

4) “Homosexuality is unnatural.”

This fallacy is an appeal to nature. It states that a thing is right just because it is natural, and a thing is wrong just because it is unnatural. But a thing is not right just because it is natural, and a thing is not wrong just because it is unnatural. Clearly, rape and murder are a part of human nature, but we don’t say that these things are right, because they harm people; similarly, aeroplanes are unnatural, but nobody goes around protesting against aeroplanes, because they are helpful to us. Besides, a great deal of evidence suggests that, in large part, homosexuality is natural. We see it everywhere in nature. Penguins do it in the zoo, lions do it on the savanna, and Ellen Degeneres does it with Portia de Rossi in the bedroom of their Beverly Hills flat while their dogs and cats watch. Oh, and bonobos practice lesbianism as a way to cement social bonds. Human beings have practised homosexuality all throughout history, all around the world, in almost every culture. On top of that, do you know how many species of animals are hermaphroditic or transsexual? The permutations are mindboggling. Just watch one of Isabella Rossellini’s strangely droll and artistic Green Porno or Seduce Me short documentaries about mating habits in nature. How can it all be heterosexual?

5) “Homosexuals  do not procreate.”

True. Homosexuals do not procreate. Neither do sterile couples. Or post-menopausal women. Or hysterectomised women. Or couples who simply choose not to have children. Seriously? You don’t think that any of these people should have sex just because they don’t make babies? That’s just ridiculous. You may as well pass a law which states that couples must procreate within a certain number of years following their marriage or else their marriage will be annulled—and they will be banned from having any kind of sex afterward. Sounds fascist to me. Obviously people don’t just have sex to make babies; they also have sex for pleasure. Having sex for pleasure can help forge vital social bonds and nurture social stability. It also creates personal happiness, which has a positive trickle-down effect on the larger community. In a world verging on 7 billion in population, homosexuals have sex for love and pleasure, not to make more people, thus they play a vital role in creating social and demographic stability. So, no, homosexuality is not wrong just because it does not result in babies.

6) “All men can marry women, and all women can marry men. Therefore there is no inequality.”

This argument is a sophistry—it deliberately misses the point by setting up a straw man. The point is not whether all people are allowed to marry members of the opposite sex; the point is whether all people are allowed to marry members of the sex that they are attracted to. The injustice is in the fact that women cannot marry other women and men cannot marry other men, while women can marry men, and men can marry women. This means that gay people cannot marry the people they are attracted to, but straight people can marry the people they are attracted to. Thus, all people cannot marry the person they are attracted to. That is where the inequality lies. Obviously, the whole point of marriage equality is the right to marry a member of the sex you are attracted to, not a member of the sex you are not attracted to. So, no, it isn’t clever or valid to say that all men can marry women, and all women can marry men.

7) “If we legalise gay marriage, what’s next?”

This is the classic slippery slope argument. It makes me want to ask, well, if we legalise miscegenation, what’s next? Mulatto offspring? Sex with donkeys? Barack Obama? They were singing the same tune, I’m sure, in the United States back in 1967 with the ruling Loving v. Virginia, which legalised interracial marriage. Back then, too, I could have asked, what’s next? child molestation? Seriously, if you think that letting gays marry will lead to people having sex with children and donkeys, you haven’t heard of a little thing called adult consent. And if you compare sex between consenting adults with sexual abuse, there is seriously something broken inside your head. The requirement for morally sound sex is adult human consent. Period. Therefore gay sex between consenting adults is morally sound, while sex with children and donkeys is not. (Animals can’t really consent, can they?)  So, no, none of that nasty, scary donkey sex stuff will happen, dears, because it isn’t between consenting human adults. So just relax.

8 ) “What will I tell my children?”

Tell your children that Pam and Sally, the two ladies who have lived in the mysterious house across the street since before your own family existed, live together because they love each other and want to spend the rest of their lives together, in peace and happiness. That is what they want. And that is what you should tell your children. I know—isn’t it so simple?

And those are the eight reasons why homophobia doesn’t make any sense, and why the U.S. federal ban on gay marriage should be repealed. I hope I expressed my points in the most trenchant prose possible. The federal ban on gay marriage destabilises loving unions, families, and children. If one truly cared about marriage and family, one would want to maximise the potential for lovingly committed adults to raise children in healthy, loving environments which nurture dignity, cooperation, and social cohesion. The current U.S. federal law falls short of this goal, but for some reason I have an inkling that this will change very soon, and when it does, it will be as a much-welcome torrent bursting forth over a dam on to a long-parched field, tended naively by the very people who built the dam in the first place.





Drag Queens and Christian Divas

13 08 2011

I just realized something the other day, and it strikes me as more uncanny the more it sinks in. Jan Crouch looks like Divine. Seriously. Scarily like Divine. The wigs, the crazy make-up, the charismatic, larger-than-life diva persona, the whole cosmetic case. But Jan Crouch is a televangelist who co-hosts the Christian program Praise the Lord on the Trinity Broadcasting Network, and Divine (who died in 1988) was a drag queen, singer, and actor who starred in John Waters films like Pink Flamingoes, Female Trouble, Polyester, and Hairspray and released a series of Hi-NRG dance hits like I’m So Beautiful, Walk Like a Man, and Native Love which have become cult classics in the gay and electronic music communities. How can a televangelist look so much like a drag queen? What in the world is the common denominator?

Above is a picture of Jan Crouch, and below, a picture of Divine.

I don’t know about you, but I sense a . . . ahem . . . celestial theme going on with both of these scrumptious, fragrant, poodle-like ladies. Maybe Jan Crouch and Divine were friends at some point and exchanged fashion tips. Maybe they read the little red words of Jesus in the same NIV Bible together, or went to drag shows together. Maybe they performed together, singing contemporary Christian hits or inspirational hymns, or maybe Hi-NRG disco tracks produced by Stock, Aitken, and Waterman (SAW). Or maybe they shared husbands in a polyamorous relationship. I like to think that maybe they became bosom buddies getting a boob job at the same boob job clinic. But I don’t know about that. I think Divine’s boobies were fake. Actually, come to think of it, I think Jan Crouch’s boobies are fake too. I guess that’s another thing they have in common.

To get an idea of what I’m talking about, watch this video clip of Jan Crouch (I couldn’t find a serious video of her; it’s not my fault they’re all parodies):

…and now, children, feast your eyes upon this hot, throbbing, strangely ethereal-sounding homage to Snow White (a song and video I salivate over constantly, handkerchief in hand) by the inimitable queen of early Hi-NRG herself, Divine:

Why do Jan Crouch and Divine want to share mascara wands so much? Maybe that last song sums it up in a nutshell. They’re both unabashedly, flagrantly beautiful. As goes the cliché: the higher the hair, the closer to heaven. Maybe they used to go to clubs in, like, Chelsea or the Castro and sing Christian hymns to a 4/4 dance beat backing track or something. Gay men *get* crazy, big-haired, hymn-clutching, oratorical Christian women—maybe because a lot of gay men were raised by these big ol’ Christian divas and found out, hey, they actually love me and don’t think I’m going to hell!

I think sometimes we take the Christian versus homo thing a bit too seriously, especially when it comes to drag queens and Christian divas and their unexpectedly beautiful, synchronistic relationships with one another. Often, I think, Christian divas are just being mouthpieces for their stodgy husbands while deep down inside they actually like homos. A lot. And for them this is a matter of sloughing off the old, putrid sludge of Biblical patriarchy, becoming their own woman, and honouring what they truly think and feel inside. Think of Tammy Faye Messner, who before she died actually had a talk show with a gay co-host and said in an interview she supported the gay community. I mean, Tammy Faye even appeared in gay pride marches with Lady Bunny and Bruce Vilanch. Yeah! I know! The old PTL televangelist became a fag-hag! She certainly didn’t do so because her husband or the Bible told her to do so; more likely, she did so because she identified with the community as a human with similar thoughts, needs, and emotions. (Wait. Tammy Fay Messner looks just like Divine too. Holy shit. It’s a movement.)

Christian divas and homos both love performance and caricature, over-the-top imagery, bombastic music, and blowing people’s minds out of the water with their big, overly–made–up, screaming, crying faces. It’s cathartic, just like praying to God, or the Madonna (in multiple senses—the mother of Christ, the singer, and the Goddess), so it’s inevitable that the one should identify with the other. Sadly, a lot of Christian divas and drag queens put on their look because they don’t like the way they look without it. In both we see a bittersweet mixture of sorrow and ecstasy, the tragedy which secretly haunts the clown.

Well, I think I may have just answered my own question.

All of that aside though, I’ll tell you what—both of these girls have amazing taste! I wish I had the balls—and tits—to go on T.V. and do movies looking like that. I wouldn’t want either of them to change a thing. Not a thing. Seriously. And not simply because I think I would be turned to stone if I saw one of them rising from their tomb, waking  up in the morning, getting off the toilet, or hopping out of the shower to go to Bible class or drag rehearsal. Religion and Bible crap aside, and looking just at their purely human essence, I think both drag queens and Christian divas offer a vivid, Technicolor glimpse at what sort of magical, otherworldly creatures we all secretly want to embody, and can if we’ll just undo the straps, put the foot to the pedal, and say, “What the fuck?”





The Great Seattle Prayer War: Part One – The Summoning

10 08 2011

In a recent blog entry I discussed another, professional, blog entry in which I described how Texas governor Rick Perry is collaborating with radical Christian youth minister Lou Engles to organize a prayer rally in Houston. Lou Engles participated in a music album with the youth ministry Elijah Revolution which inspired another radical minister, Cindy Jacobs, to issue a prayer alert for Seattle and Washington state through her own network of prayer groups called Root 52. I mentioned that I would re-write that professional blog entry to convey the evil thoughts that dwell within my dark, unsaved mind. You will find these unruly, uncouth fancies distilled in the blog entry below. So unpeel your innocent eyelids and read on, warrior!

A hot, dry, satanic dust-storm swept over the lair of Mike and Cindy Jacobs in Weatherford, Texas, a righteous and sacred exurban Christian outpost of the depraved Dallas metroplex. It was no longer safe in Texas’s large cities, despite the fact that they all look like Tehran compared with San Francisco (except for Austin). No, even the Metroplex was succumbing to the sins of religious and sexual “tolerance”. It was increasingly necessary to move out of cosmopolitan city centres, where ideas were being exchanged and intellectuals bred thoughts like spores on the wind, and move to a more secluded, holy place—with plenty of free parking and only the barest modicum of blacks—a place pure with the blood of the lamb, where God’s moral code, as outlined in the Bible, could be enshrined and protected from the ravages of reason.

“By God’s holy grace”, cried Cindy to her husband, “we can’t hold up in here much longer. If this sandstorm is the Lord’s message that He is coming—and the Bible says it is so—we must by his grace save the heathens of the northern and coastal regions.”

“Honey, I understand”, said Mike, “because, as your husband, I must love you, but as your husband, I cannot suffer you to usurp my authority with your unwarranted speech.” And with this, he gave his wife a brief lesson on 1 Timothy 2:12, followed by a lesson on Ephesians 5:22.

“Aye”, said the submissive wife diffidently, showing signs of disappointment, “so it is, for the Bible—the inerrant word of God—tells us so.” She clung to him, laying her head on his chest, and the little ones crowded round them to hear these sage words, for they were captivated by the sight of a woman leeching wisdom from a man, the source of all divine knowledge. A new breed of prayer warriors was born. Except for one little bastard named Susie. She flat-out refused.

“Why should wives submit to their husbands?” asked Susie inquisitively.

“Wives should submit to their husbands because the Lord in Heaven tells them so through His gospel”, spake the wise and humble father, bestowing his magnanimity like crumbs upon the females who clustered at his feet like starved hens clucking for more from the great cock.

“But the Bible also justifies the enslavement of daughters”, countered the precocious little Jezebel, quoting Exodus 21:7. “How, then, can you say that the Bible is the word of God without saying that God hates women and supports slavery?”

“That was the old covenant, Susie”, grunted the father impatiently. “Jesus gave us a new covenant.”

“Oh, so there was still a time when selling daughters into slavery was necessary, then”, she said. “If God hadn’t become Jesus and killed himself to pay for human imperfection, which he himself created, we would still have reason to slaughter goats, stone adulteresses to death, and execute gay people.”

“Susie”, said her father impatiently. Here he was at a momentary loss for words. His daughter took advantage of the pause.

“Well”, she continued, “thank God we’ve upgraded the sacrificial victim from a goat to a human. What an improvement. This time, instead of slaughtering goats to propitiate God, we get to nail a human being to a cross and let him take days to die. But he’ll magically rise from the dead—but, in the end, he’ll still have been tortured to death. And even more, Jesus is God, so that means God is killing himself for us to accept his suicide so that he can pay himself his own dues. That’s not schizophrenic at all.”

The father evaded these uncomfortable observations and stonewalled his daughter by re-asserting, “God wants men to protect women because women need the wisdom of men—”

“—Dad, you’re not acknowledging any of my points. I’ve just countered the one that you are re-stating. Don’t re-state. Refute.”

“Susie—”

“—Stop calling me Susie. My birthname is Mei Ping. Yeah. I dug into your and Mom’s files and found out I was picked up at a Shanghai adoption agency in 1999. So cut the crap.”

Shocked at her discovery and drawing on his last reserves of patience, the stonily patronizing father resumed. “Mei Ping, God wants men to protect women because women need the wisdom of men—”

“—but that’s paternalism”, interrupted Mei Ping.

“It’s what?”

“It’s paternalism. It’s saying that men know better than women. It is the manner of providing an individual protection while, at the same time, denying that individual her rights as an autonomous human being. It is protecting her while depriving her. This sort of domestic arrangement effectively constitutes totalitarianism within the household, and it is unreasonable and egotistical.”

“Susie!”

“I’m Mei Ping.”

“Susie!”

“Okay, fine, I’m Susie. But—”

“—Susie, go to the basement. I have no further need of your oratories.”

“But, Dad, you give plenty of them yourself. Why, then, shouldn’t I return the same trenchant lecturing? Oh, right. Because I have a vagina.”

“Susie! You never say that ugly word in this household. Do you hear me?! That language is vile! Now go to the basement!”

“Ugh, yes, Father.” And with that, 12 year-old Susie trod downstairs to her cabbage-patch-doll-studded dungeon beneath the windswept intellectual desert of Weatherford, Texas, with nothing to do but watch Christian puppet videos amid a menagerie of stuffed animals. There she mulled and languished, her indignation stewing under a single, pale lightbulb, a stuffed pink unicorn at her side.

“Honey”, said Cindy, “You handled that brilliantly! I remember when I was a petulant little girl with thoughts of my own and didn’t know when to submit to my elders. I had to be taught by example how misguided my thoughts were.”

“Thank you, wife. I will always honour and love you for the kind support you show me.”

“Now that that’s taken care of, husband, I’ve had this thought on my mind for a while now. I think it is time to attack Seattle.”

“I accept your opinion, wife. That evil northwestern coastal city of Baal is full of faggots, feminists, fornicators, witches, mixed marriages, and single-parent households. More than anywhere, it needs to be bathed in the sweet blood of the lamb”.

“Amen”, said the wife, “the blood of our sacrificial victim, Lord Jesus Christ.”

“I accept your opinion”, said the husband humbly, “for the Lord said I should love you.”

“Then let us gather our forces and attack!”

“I concur.”

“Let’s use children from the exurbs!”

“Agreed ten thousand times over. In fact, I already thought of that. But don’t speak too much.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“First we must make our plan known to our covert operatives in the Root 52 network. We must publish a prayer alert for this Washington state and this city of Seattle!”

“Yaaaay!” screeched Cindy hysterically, clinging to the man’s thick arm as an ivy wraps round a giant oak.

With the plan in place, the Jacobses summoned their Root 52 prayer troops—mostly children they had culled from nearby church playgrounds, their own children in tow—and marched forth with their guns, American flags, and Christian country music albums toward the Great White North. Seattle! Somewhere up there. Canada or the Cascades or something. Canada-Seattle-Albertaville. It all gets confusing past Denver, and when you have to work with a map, and in two dimensions, it is especially gruelling.

Mike and Cindy stomped through friendly prayer-warrior territory at first—northern Texas, far northern Texas, and then far, far northern Texas, recruiting more young children from their apprehensive, stupidly confused families along the way—and then, after crossing a number of friendly super-malls dominated by parking lots, Wal-Marts, and Neiman Marcus outlets, they had to cross a state boundary. God bless us. Thank goodness it was the Oklahoma state boundary. Thank goodness they were still white, Christian, and American. Mostly. Who knew which states the Mexicans had stolen back from America since that time America stole them from Mexico?

Mike and Cindy soon met the lone prairie. A prairie they had never met before. Back home in Texas the prairie was covered in cows, daisies, and church spires—all the trappings of our glorious Lord, Jesus Christ—and it was the same when they were crossing the Oklahoma panhandle, but as they made their way across Kansas, and then Nebraska, gazing upon those long, lonely grasses, they realised they were in limbo. Evangelical Christian limbo. These souls needed to be saved! But not as badly as those up north and west. Or somewhere up theres-ville.

“Lord”, whimpered Cindy, staring zombie-like through the windscreen, her hands clenched together, “we are in a dark country now. We walk through the valley of the shadow of death, and we ask for your guidance.” Here she closed her eyes intently; her husband continued driving with one limp hand dangling over the steering wheel, a pair of eyes staring stonily at the road. “We cannot fight this battle alone. We need your power, your wisdom, your might—your fury—to guide us forth, vanquish our enemy, and take back America for you.” Her voice took on a strangely primal, quavering cadence. “Lord, we ask you to sweep your mighty hand across this once-great land and wash it clean with your blood. We ask you to take your mighty fingers, pick up the dust of the earth, and throw it in the face of your adversary, Satan. We ask you to take that same dust and mould it into a mighty host of beasts filled with the vicious wrath of your righteous goodness! We ask, God, that you plague the land with your fury and bring the people of America back to the ways of their Saviour and Creator. Satan, we rebuke you in the name of the Lord, Jesus Christ!”

The wife said these words with such absolute intensity and conviction that neither she nor her husband heard the thudding noise until it began to rattle the windows and the console, causing the children in the back of the caravan to giggle with excitement. At that, they looked out their windows behind them and witnessed a vast storm pregnant with brown-grey clouds looming overhead. From these stretched downward a vast number of dust-devils; on the land below these were what looked like a giant herd of rabid, ferocious hyaena-like beasts with matted hair, watery red eyes, and bared sharp teeth covering the plain as far as the eye could see. Beast and dust-devil consumed the land and sky in a cloud of shifting shapes and forms, darting over rocks, streams, and escarpments, moving in the same direction as the caravan. One of the land-creatures latched a claw on to the right rearview mirror of the caravan, where Cindy sat. She screamed.

Keep reading to find out what happens to the Mike and Cindy Jacobs caravan as the swarm of beasts descends. You will discover many new characters, including the tree-people, the frost giants, Lilith, and Susie. But be forewarned: never misjudge a girlish laugh or a pretty-sounding name.