To all of the "slippery slope" folks who claim that allowing gay marriage will instantly result in guys marrying their own children in multiples and then fucking a dog, may I say firstly that your idiotic claim is tantamount to claiming that by licensing people to drive cars, we are dangerously close to a world full of jet pilots and train conductors, and, secondly, would it really be all bad (re: the dog part)?
To everyone else, thanks for the comments, the reads, and the many many links to that essay about why Ender’s Game is actually about how we should feel sorry for Hitler. I still don’t buy it, but whatever; conspiracy theories are fun. That’s why I still maintain John Kennedy was killed by the Bush Administration in order to galvanize the nation against Iraq.
But enough hilarious riffing. Reading the comments on my Monday post made me realize that perhaps I was unfair. Perhaps I was a bit extreme, and presented one side of an argument without providing the opportunity for an opposing viewpoint to be heard.
And so, that no one may ever claim that I am opinionated or “human” in any way, I decided to make fun of something gay today. That way, all the people who thought I was progressive and open-minded can be politely corrected, and the mystery we call Michael Swaim will grow yet another layer deeper.
But what to mock? What’s timely and involves something gay that I hate? No, not cock rings. Cock rings are awesome. They make great gifts, and if you’re looking for a temporary plumbing solution and are all out of 1-3/4” washers, they’ll do in a pinch.
The clear answer is Clay Aiken, the American Idol runner-up we all always knew was gay but felt weird making assumptions about.
Well, he is gay, or at least loathes the female body enough to have his son born through a host mother rather than taking the opportunity to leave a lady’s clay achin’, if you catch my nearly unintelligible pun.
Not that this fact alone makes him definitely gay. There are plenty of reasons someone might want to have a baby without having sex:
But as far as Clay is concerned, I’m going to narrow it down to one of the last two. And to keep from waking up shrieking every night, I’m going to further narrow it down to the one that has him anally probing for pleasure rather than to extract information about “the fleshopoids.”
So welcome to the world, Parker Foster Aiken, son of Clay and “dear friend” Jaymes Foster. Your father sings like a woman, is roughly the width of yarn, styles his hair to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night, and loves the hell out of some musical theatre.
If you’re not gay by age fourteen, the Nature vs. Nurture debate has officially been settled.
ADDENDUM: Better journalists than myself have apparently spent a lot more time examining the minutiae of Clay Aiken's sex life, and uncovered compelling evidence pointing towards Clay's "dear friend" being 50, and maybe even Clay not being the father. Also they coined the term "Clayby," which puts me right back on top of the journalistic integrity pile.
When not blogging for Cracked, Michael is a walking contradiction, wrapped in an enigma, smothered in Those Aren't Muskets!