Dear Mrs. Vera,
What will become of America now that the Supreme Court has legalized same sex marriage?
Phyllis McAlpo Stewpot Schlafly
I apologize for the brevity of this week’s column in advance to all those deluging me with wedding etiquette questions, the answer to every single one of which is, A) congratulations and B) The only thing you need to know is that love is love is love, and the fork is worn to the left.
This was a momentous week for not only my readers but for all Americans, as the Supreme Court surprised us with evidence that there is hope for humanity after all, even though a sizeable chunk of it has been trapped in the grinding wheels of the mill of our flour-covered system of justice for a tediously long time. Along with that hope, there is also a little bit of legal proof as well, and while I am not here on this planet to take pleasure in the disappointments of others, Phyllis, it strikes me that this is a good week to wish you in particular some high-proof corn liquor cocktails to drown your sorrows in. Seems like an opportune time to, self-indulgently, perhaps, allow myself to wallow a while in the pleasure of not answering you, your friends, their media outlets and their paid shills crybaby questions about whatever on earth poor, old you and poor, old, rich and old they will be doing next both against – and to – the lives and children of other people they don’t even know, especially the gay ones who so terrify you. I might suggest that you attend a parade with your son, but that’s just what I would do, and in fact I am going to do, as I fly around the country on my magical Amana™ Electro Time-Travel Broom with the super-duper long extension cord, performing thousands of thousands of marriages with my 25-days-into-the-future enchanted vacuum cleaner bags/home invitation calligraphy embosser kit/Preacher Diploma. Thanks, Amana™!
I’ve also got a lot of paperwork to do in my capacity as a census bureau monitor to update the figures on our population, using the new, more accurate system of counting all citizens as equal, instead of the complex derivative scheme currently in place used to calculate people’s worth if, say, they are gay. This has been, apparently, a critically important function of government, until Thursday’s ruling, as our economy depends on the prompt and thorough figuring out of how much society needs to punish the kids (and widows) of Gays and Lesbians for being in what was previously considered just an awful home. But it turns out that it wasn’t! That same home now is one that is officially recognized to be only as horrible as the drapes (or any furniture from Sears™, really, there, I said it) it contains, which is a pretty cheap, easy and effective instant make-over If I do say so myself, even though I hasten to admit that this was the very last way in the world it felt before the decision in arrived.
It is now time to celebrate like a real American Family is allowed to, by upgrading. It is time to try out that new Family-size Barbeque we had installed, the one that serves all families, equally, without us having to put up with all those histrionic sniffles, bellicose chest-pounding tantrums, foot-stamping/grimy charcoal footprints all over our nice things that we’ve had to put up with from the old marriage pit that just hated, hated, hated to grill hot dogs.
I, for one, am thrilled that my hectic schedule this week prevents me from the dreary experience of slogging through another slice of dear, old Phyllis’s utterly unappetizing Shlaeoofly Pie, her leaden flour and molasses smushypaste paperweight of a dessert/worldview are something that I will resolutely not be leaving room for, in the stomach of life! The stomach of life is too short, in my opinion. Doesn’t yours feel better already, America, by foregoing that particular wedge of sorrow? I know it looks better because of what’s not being put in it. Honestly, I can’t even get through the ingredient list when she sends, daily, it seems, some new, awful recipe for one of her Pies of Life. No thanks!
Mrs. Vera Newman is a San Francisco absurdist character, humorist, artist, writer, community organizer, clothes horse and co-founder, with Mister Tina, of The Verasphere. She has been answering the unasked questions she receives from the lonely, empty rooms of America’s heart-shaped circulatory pump room ever since it began beating. Nestled in the politically bent bowels of the Nation since she was a young girl babysitting the very same newborn Nation, her ability to self-reflect about anyone else’s embarrassing shortcomings, inept fumblings or lousy recipes has enabled her invisible rise as a modern-day Cassandra, whatever that means. Feel free to dispose of all your worries by leaving them on her doorstep!