My Gods, My Angels and My Fairies

Only Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh took a different path. I won't even dignify their remarks by repeating them. You know what they said. The only thing that surprised me is that Pat Robertson didn't blame "THE GAYS." Robertson blames everything on "THE GAYS" - 9/11, the fall of the Roman Empire, the 1918 Spanish flu epidemic, the sinking of the Titanic, the God-awful Bee Gees in their Disco period, he even blames "THE GAYS" for his increasingly frequent and painful hemorrhoid flare-ups.

Limbaugh also hates "THE GAYS." The reason they hate "THE GAYS" is because we strive to be attractive, engaging, and are capable of love, whereas they are two fat, greasy, butt-ugly eyesores that exude all the charm and finesse of a sheep rapist. I'm not saying Rush Limbaugh and Pat Robertson have sex with animals - I'm sure they don't - but if it came out in the National Enquirer that one, or both, of them were romantically linked with a four-legged farm animal ... well, let's just say it wouldn't surprise me.

Limbaugh and Robertson are obsessed with "THE GAYS" and their sex lives. I sense their fat faces pressed against my bedroom window, as they peer through a crack in the drapes, wiping dribbling slobber away from their lips as they witness my Satanic bedroom debaucheries i.e. my lover asleep and snoring quietly and me reading Jane Austen's "Pride and Prejudice" and wondering when to plant the nasturtium seeds for my garden. And that's where I differ greatly from Limbaugh and Robertson. I have no interest in their private sex lives whatsoever, I've never given it a passing thought. Until now!

If they're going to stick their nose into our gay bedrooms and make comments, then it's time to be a fly on the wall and take a peak into their private sex life. Pat Robertson (born Marion Gordon Robertson. Google it if you don't believe me) married Adelia "Dede" Elmer on Aug. 26, 1954; they have four children of the corn and a whole prairie of grandchildren of the corn. Even if Pat Robertson only had sex with his wife four times - one for each offspring - it's not a pretty image. Close your eyes and imagine Robertson climbing on top of you, a slimy mountainous squidgy sweaty sack of pasty-white Jell-O blobbing over your body, caressing you with his wet slimy beached whale frantically flapping mucus-covered flippers, kissing you with his poisonous swamp-thing dog breath, licking your nipples with his leathery reptile tongue while emitting short bursts of foul-smelling mouth farts and then trying to insert his marshmallow into your slot machine.

His poor wife! Let's all gather around in a virtual circle, hold hands and pray for Adelia: "Dear Lord, forgive this woman for allowing herself to be blobbed on the boobies by a creature in a semi-vegetative state. May you help her escape from under the spreading blob and move on to a happier relationship with someone who doesn't leave a trail of slime as they slither through life."

Adelia "Dede" Robertson should get an award. If there's a Nobel Prize for being nailed to a mattress by the Ugly Bug it should go to her. I pray to My Gods, My Angels, and My Fairies, that Adelia leaves her husband and joins the cast of "The Vagina Monologues," so she can share her tales of suffering. Let Adelia's labia speak!! Let her vagina tell us what it's like to be pounded by a cold rice pudding past its sell-by-date. My Gods, My Angels, and My Fairies cry out to the wind! Fly Adelia! grab your hot pussy and fly!

When you open the door of Rush Limbaugh's bedroom there's not much to see, just a lonely overweight recovering drag addict washed up on a bed ruminating over why he can't satisfy a woman. Limbaugh has had three short-lived marriages: Roxy Maxine McNeely, Michelle Sixta, and Marta Maranda Fitzgerald; all his wives have left him to pursue satisfying relationships with real men.

Limbaugh is currently married to his right hand; I hear the hand is filing for divorce.