The Straits Of Hormuz, Isn't That Homophobic? - The Last Circus Act In The Gender Big Top

In a hilarious send-up, an eager young woman is asked if she doesn't think the term 'The Straits of Hormuz' is homophobic. 'Why isn't it called The Gays of Hormuz'.  She enthusiastically agrees. 

When the President was told of the interview, he laughed and said, 'You never know what you'll find under those burqas' which of course set off the usual caterwauling of LGBTQ+ lesbians who seem to be the ones who most defiantly take up the cudgel of gay rights. 

 

Billie-Ann Fitch, spokesperson for the Gay and Lesbian Alliance, had this to say: 'Typical of the man - and I use that term loosely for a closeted gay homophobe who sucks dick in the Oval Office'.  She continued her thought in a rant quoted in full in the queer press.   

The irony of the circle was completely lost on her - a joke, a put-on, gotcha fake news doubled down by the President then taken seriously by 'Billie La Douce', a Bernal Heights butch nickname for her 'lubricious delights'.  Eating out was never such a pleasure, said her protege, associate and speech writer who had come with her to Washington and who had penned her lover's screed.  

The send-up clip and the President's response went viral. In one fell swoop Trump had ridiculed the bagged ladies of Tehran, the idiots who had bought the social media charade, and took a swipe at the whole LGBTQ+ thing.  'Did you mean to disrespect the freely-held views of the gay community?', asked the reporter from CNN at the President's press conference. 

'Disrespect?' he replied.  'No, I respect everyone's opinions, even those which are horseshit'.  The briefing room went quiet.  Now, that was going overboard even for a president who was increasingly using foul language in public utterances, and after a moment of stunned silence, the room erupted.  Reporters blurted incoherent questions, some left the room to file, but many, used to the President's Grossinger's shtick, clapped. 

 

The whole fantastical gender jamboree was finally outed for the clown show it was.  The parade of twisted sisters was finally closed down.  Not even New Orleans Mardi Gras organizers wanted any more of it and shut down the entire gay flotilla for 2027.  The San Francisco Bay-to-Breakers gay 'parade to the sea' was no more, as was the S&M Folsom Street fair. 

Axel Phipps took a last swallow of his beer, hitched his overalls, and waved so long to his afternoon drinking buddies at Ernie's of Greenwood, Mississippi and walked out into the hot summer sun. The cab of his truck was baking, the Mars bar he had left on the dashboard had melted and dripped all the way to the console, and it felt like his pack of Camels would light themselves. 

But Axel was a happy man.  His man in the White House was once again telling it like it is, ridiculing the perverts claiming space in his Nation's Capital, subversives all, political vermin, traitors, and anarchists. Finally and at long last the President was making good on his promise to drain the swamp, set the country on is originalist course, and restore family values. 

'Nothing against them', Axel said, 'as long as they stay out of my pants'.  No fear of that, he mused as he waited for the AC to kick in.  He never had had a sexually seditious thought, never once even wondered what it would be like, sucking some guy's cock and....Here he shook his head to perish the thought. 

God forbid, he said; but he had never until this moment thought of his foreman Brad Loughlin, 'queer as a three-dollar bill' that way.  Good worker, that Brad, never complained, quiet, reserved, none of this swishy stuff you see on television.  

Axel had nothing at gays per se. It was only this Sodom and Gomorrah cavalcade that upset him, this unholy aggressiveness, these demands to strut and pout and call it mainstream which made his blood boil. 

 

Axel had an ally half-way across the country in Chevy Chase, Maryland, a wealthy suburb of Washington, uniformly and universally progressive.  Every other home had a Hate Has No Home Here lawn sign, residents had loudly outed COVID deniers, maskless truants who mindlessly infected others; and were in solidarity with the progressive agenda. They were Trump haters to a man, locked arms in unison in marches for democracy and an end to autocracy, shared their anger and hate with neighbors, and were active in the PTA to assure diversity, equity, and inclusivity. 

Vicki Chalmers was one of the most ardent, active promoters of the liberal canon, and had marched for abortion, the climate, the black man, and most recently the gay, lesbian, and transgender community. She, however, had balked at her elementary school's invitation of a transgender woman, formerly a Brooklyn dockworker, to read to the kindergarten class.  The book 'Love Is Like A Garden' was a story of 'love in all its shapes and sizes'.  It was a story of Robert and Peter who swung on the swings together, took walks in the woods, and - this was the part that alerted Vicki - shared kisses 'under the maple tree'. 

'What's happening to me?', she asked herself at the PTA meeting where parents applauded the school's decision to diversify and become more inclusive but she bridled.  The....thing...that was the only thought that came into her mind, horrible as it was...should never set foot in a classroom. His...or should I say her outfit was as tarted up as could be, all spangles and rouge, dangly earrings, and costume jewelry.  He barked his thank you and welcome introduction, and when he stood up he dwarfed Mrs. Hayes, the principal, and her associate teachers. 

'The Gays of Hormuz', that now famous, viral meme, popped into her head.  The whole ridiculousness of the enterprise, the flogging of gayness, the sacrificial mass to transgenderism, the outrageous pomp and circumstance of a confected sexual fantasy suddenly hit home.  Enough is enough, she said. 

Mississippi Axel and Chevy Chase Vicki might well be seeing the last of the sexual circus, the 'horseshit' so aptly named by the President, the badgering, hectoring, hammering insistence on a sexual inclusivity which was nothing more than a Barnum & Bailey side show.  Let homosexuals fold back into the body politic where they have always peacefully resided. Discrimination against them has increased, not decreased in the progressive era of outing every impossible sexual permutation.  Most people took no notice of the gay pharmacist on Main Street, but now conflated him with the flaming queers on Bay-to-Breakers floats. His interests were disserved, his personal integrity shamed. 

Vicki would of course never vote for Donald Trump in a million years, but she had to admit, privately of course, that he was right in one - the gay cavalcade was over the top, baroque and rococo, and in its twisted excesses. ridiculous. 

Could she be a one issue voter and change her political allegiance?  Was this one definitive, principled stance by the President the turning point?  Perhaps, and she dared not think which lever she would pull in 2028. 

Such is the bully pulpit - the innate power of the Presidency.  All it takes is one dismissive, categorical send-up of something obviously ridiculous for every American to nod in agreement. When woke was the meme, the ethos of the previous administration, the gay thing was take as gospel, never questioned, received wisdom, but it only took Trump's 'horseshit' to clear the air, to send the whole ridiculous kit-and-kaboodle packing.