It was almost twenty years ago, but I still remember the moment like it was yesterday. The scene will always be branded onto my brain, like a scar, like a Duck Dynasty tattoo gone awry. I was sitting in the observation room of the local ballet studio, and I’d just come in out of the woods from bowhunting. I was dressed from head to toe in camouflage. Well-dressed, fancified city folk were staring at me as I ground my teeth, sitting in the corner. I looked out into the next room at the prancing young ladies, dressed in bright, happily colored leotards, their bodies flowing musically as they leaped and landed with the grace of gazelles. In any other circumstance I would have been too busy lusting to be upset. But not today.
I looked off to the left and saw my nine-year-old son talking to a teenage boy. Both of them were dressed in black tights. How did I get here? What carnal sin had I committed to be handed this punishment? My oldest son was performing ballet, gaily prancing in leotards with other males.
I had died and gone to redneck hell!
Today the United States Supreme court just ruled that two men can marry each other – two women can form a more perfect union. Forgive my bigotry, but that just makes my redneck hindquarters pucker up in revolt. I don’t get it. What’s the big draw here? Why do so many men want to perform unnatural acts with each other? Excuse me for a moment while I lean over and vomit into my shiny brass cuspidor.
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