Home > My Favorites > Day Thirty-five: The Day the Gays Came

Day Thirty-five: The Day the Gays Came

The day the gays came, no one was prepared. Families sat in their kitchens, eating breakfast and getting ready to go to work, to school. Hard-working Americans set off to earn an honest day’s pay. Husbands kissed their wives good-bye, wives their husbands. The sons and daughters of American families went off to their lessons, sure in the knowledge that their futures were bright and their success was ensured.

And then the gays came.

Where they came from, no one knew, but come they did. They descended on those breakfasts, those fathers and wives, daughters and sons, and no family was left untouched.

The day the gays came, they lined up all the men in the world. With sass and sarcasm, the Gaystapo culled the men, taking those they could use and discarding the rest. The handsome flowers of American youth were swept away in great flurries of leather and denim and glitter to the Homofication Camps in San Francisco and New York, Provincetown and Key West. There they raised their young gay army of football players and swim team captains, drama queens and emo boys, creating a virile, hedonistic force to overrun the world.

The day the gays came, drive-by renovations were endemic. A man could not step out of his house without being surrounded by teams of designers and decorators, and he was lucky if he made it out with his old Metallica t-shirts intact. Souvenir shot glasses were replaced with hand-blown, free trade glassware, Precious Moments figurines were dashed to the ground and traditional Japanese phallus sculptures were put in their place. Refrigerators were emptied of hot dogs and onion dip, old Chinese food and microwave pizza. It was arugula or death. Walls were viciously repainted, furniture upholstered without mercy, and no kitchen went without Marthafication.

The day the gays came, the ugly, the unfashionable, the irredeemable – they were sent away to work in the great Versace and DKNY factories that were swiftly erected across the Great Plains. Men would slave for Dolce and Gabanna until they died, overseen by hulking dominatrices and oiled-up security guards. The goods they made in the Dior Re-Conditioning Camps would flow to the queer elite, who would use them for exactly one fashion season before leaving them in the rubbish for the hipster nomads to upcycle into keychains and beer can holders.

The day the gays came, a great Amazonian kingdom emerged. Women in workboots and flannel, free-loving hippie girls and high-powered femmes fatale converged to create the Great Sapphic Kingdom. Their embassies were hardware stores and college campuses, coffeehouses and indie guitar shops and women’s prisons. There they engaged in the ancient rituals of womynhood, celebrating their mother Earth and sister Moon and calling forth the great life force to which only they could ever truly connect. Any man unlucky enough to witness their rites was torn limb from limb – a price he paid happily.

The day the gays came, the Lilith Fair ravaged the land. It moved across the country like a swarm of locusts, devouring all in its wake. As it came, it took the girls it found and absorbed them into itself. Daughters and sisters, mothers and wives all bonded together into a great lesbotic hive-mind, served by its mindless, eunuch slave-men. Discipline was strict, unrelenting, and merciless, and their ranks swelled daily with their only desire being to serve Empress DeGeneres.

The day the gays came, gyms sprung forth from the earth, vast and loud and terrible. The new fitness junta was inescapable, participation mandatory. Enforced by elite teams of aerobic instructors and weightlifters, any man without a six-pack was held indefinitely. Until he could master his core zone, he was not fit to be called a man. Unless he had the abs of an underwear model, biceps like oiled pythons, and an ass that could crack walnuts, he would never again again see the light of day.

The day the gays came, the churches were turned into rave halls. Great marble Madonnas were re-made into Madonnas, and the sacristies were rededicated to saints Garland and Minelli, Gaga and Beyonce. Where once the walls rang with the songs of holy choirs, now they pulsed to the beats of PrePhab, Junior Vasquez, and Deadmau5. The priests were evicted, but the altar boys were kept, and the parties in God’s houses never ended.

The day the gays came, the Homopocalypse, the earth shook and danced, the skies glowed mauve and the world came to a halt. The day the gays came, Fagnarok, there were poppers and X in every Happy Meal and every lunchbox had a flavored condom. The day the gays came, Queermageddon, the world was turned upside down and inside out, and all that was good was made fabulous.

The day the gays came, all creation was unified under the Rainbow Flag and its fearsome masters and mistresses.

The day the gays came was the best day ever.


(Congratulations to New York State for legislating equality of marriage for all its citizens. A long time coming, but wonderful to see.)

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