Supreme Court Rules on Gay Marriage

ollowing last week's landmark sodomy decision that opened the door for Americans everywhere not to be white Christian fundamentalists, onlookers have waited with baited breath for the other shoe to drop as the Supreme Court passes judgment on the controversial topic of gay marriage. That shoe came sooner than expected yesterday, when the high court handed down a ruling that many anticipated but few wanted to admit: "Yes, marriage is really gay."

"Marriage is like, something chicks invented to make sure guys don't have any fun," explained Justice Anthony Kennedy in his majority opinion.

"So you're saying I've got to support you financially, pay for a bunch of foofy-ass furniture I don't want, raise some snot-monster kids who live to piss me off, and I don't get to have sex with anybody else no matter how fat you get? Oh yeah, that sounds like a great deal. Sign me up and point me toward the polo shirts," sneered Justice David Souter while miming the jerk-off motion with his hand.

"I was going to get married once, but then I decided to just slam my balls in a car door and call it even. Best call I ever made," boasted Justice Breyer, sitting down gingerly.

Justice John Paul Stevens nodded in agreement. "Friend of mine got married once. They said it was Vietnam that screwed him up, but I for one know better. His wife was into collecting those little beanbag animals," Stevens shook his head solemnly.

The lone dissenting opinion was voiced by Justice Antonin Scalia, who spoke meekly from the bench.

"Hey, I like being married. It's fun to talk to my wife about what kind of sink we're going to put in the downstairs bathroom, again and again, for hours until you don't care if you live or die. And to hang out with my wife's asinine friends from college, that's a blast," asserted Justice Scalia, starting to cry. "Anyway, when I was younger I found single life to be overrated, I really did. Always getting to do whatever I wanted, staying out all night, having my own ideas…" Scalia trailed off as he got a far-away look in his eyes.

"Plus I think there's something in the bible about getting boils on your ass if you're not married by the time you're 30. Ugly stuff. It's in there somewhere, I swear. Enjoy life at your own peril, single sinners."

Uptight religious groups everywhere spoke out against the decision before it was even handed down, not wanting to miss an opportunity to start some shit.

"We will not stand for this attack on the sanctity of marriage," threatened Rev. Lee Harden-Stroker, president of the one-man To Heck with Gays Coalition of some godawful place called Hucknuckle, Texas. "Next thing you know them liberal judges gonna rule that church is boring or that closed-minded fundamentalist dogma drives a wedge between people while failing to address the spiritual needs of its followers in any meaningful fashion. And them's fightin' words."

"Sure, being married isn't much fun, but nobody said life was supposed to be fun," explained Tyner Allaboy of the Concerned Christian Men's Club. "Show me where the word 'fun' appears in the bible. Ain't there. It's God's plan for men and women to grow emotionally distant from each other, raise ungrateful children and spend our weekends fixing the damned rain gutters again and again."

"Just think about it," concluded Allaboy in a flourish of inspiration. "If God really wanted us to be happy, would he have put our mouths so far away from our privates? Try and argue with that."

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Let's get started. I don't have all day. If I did have it, I would probably charge for its use. I'm thinking $4.50, $5 ought to do it. Not outrageous, but enough to clear a healthy profit.

I have recently taken to wearing hats. And we are no longer a hat-endorsing culture, I remind you. So if you see me on the street, applaud my actions. I mean it. Seriously, applaud. Very loudly, and with whistles.

Ever notice how there are movie-grade celebrities, and then there are TV-grade celebrities? In movies, you have Tom Cruise. On TV, you get Matthew Perry. Every once in a while you'll see an ambitious star claw his way up, like George Clooney. Or you'll witness the sad decline of one star washing up on TV shores, like Geena Davis. Where does that leave Paris Hilton? I'd say straight to video, but I have more class than that.

It just occurs to me I never received any gifts at all on Christmas morning, 1993. God, no wonder that morning went by so slow. I knew something was askew.

What time is it? Drinking time! It's always drinking time, when you have alcohol.

If it's yellow, let it mellow. If it's brown, flush it down. This applies to any packet gravy you can get your hands on it.

It seems like only yesterday I was a bouncing young boy with his future laid out before him. If it was really yesterday, I had one hell of a growth spurt. I'm seriously worried if it's still going on, because I could be dead before I'm done with this column. But more than likely it was just time seeming relative to me again.

If I could have only one thing given to me, I would like a gun. Everything else I could then get myself.

I have but one rule to live by: If your teeth are turning black, it's time to start brushing. Live by this rule and you can't go wrong.

Several times a month I order a "pizza with everything on it." When it arrives, I'm disappointed to find only extra cheese, green onions, olives, mushrooms, and several kinds of meat. Is this truly everything? Have we grown so unimaginative as a culture we can't do any better? I demanded everything, damn you. Put some backbone into it.

Whoops! I fell out of my chair. That time it was an accident. I know I've done it sometimes just to get attention, but that time was for real.

I have never been charged with impersonating a police officer, though I do it all the time. Don't worry—I don't wear a uniform or carry a fake badge or anything. It's all in my attitude. I carry myself like a cop. People don't say anything, but they don't believe it. I don't tell them I'm a cop either. That would be cheating. And a felony.

They call them sunglasses, but they don't shine the sun directly into your eyes when you're wearing them. They should call them "sunblockers," or "shades." Why is it I'm the one who has to think of these things?

That's sufficient. I could give it more, but I don't think you quite deserve that, do you? No, not at all.

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Believe it or not, the commune actually makes a tidy profit at the end of the week. Not this week, certainly not every week, but we can safely say the commune occasionally makes enough of a profit to keep the commune running. And here begins the problem.

As commune profits have grown, I began to hire staff members. Many of them you know through their columns, news articles, threatening letters to the commune or court dates. But there are unsung heroes as well, and I won't start to sing them here as my voice will crack. But one of these unsung heroes is Phil Lampost, the commune's Office Manager.

Or he was the commune's Office Manager.

Phil Lampost is the victim of what I call M.M.I.—Murder Most Implausible. Lampost was an exceptional person, skilled in both computer programming and office management. I found this out when I called him into my office, under the unfortunate premise of accusing him of embezzling $45 from the commune's Red Bagel fund, a fund designed for my future frivolous use. Phil then confided in me about the horrible truth.

In his spare hours, Phil had been designing a program called the Master Control Program, which would tighten security at the office, manage the commune's finances, assign writing and editorial duties without my help, and tuck me in at night. That last part is not a joke. This would be an amazing program, once Phil worked out the bugs as he promised me. I immediately apologized for accusing him of stealing money, but you know as well as I do it's hard to trust people these days. I wish I could say the story ended there.

Phil warned me cryptically that the program was growing out of control. Phil had made it as smart as an average person, he warned me, and that the thing would be ten times smarter than myself. Phil worried that the program was growing beyond its design, thinking for itself. Think about that! A computer thinking for itself without being told to do so. Think about it! It's beyond human, with all of our good points and none of our bad. And Phil warned me that if he could not be reached again, it would mean the Master Control Program had grown so bold as to kidnap Phil into the computer world.

I dread telling you what happened. Yes, Phil disappeared. My guess is that Phil discovered every penny of the commune's account was missing, no doubt stolen by the conniving Master Control Program, and when Phil tried to stop it he was abducted into the computer world. And for some reason, the MCP also abducted my new blonde secretary and bought two tickets to Jamaica.

But I shall not be thrown off the path from the real villain. The Master Control Program must be stopped. I don't know how, but I can and will do it.

I first set out to write a program to destroy the Master Control Program, but was thwarted early on by the fact that my computer was not already on. I will obviously have to enlist someone to write such a program for me, as well as turn my computer on.

Until such a time I will stop the Master Control Program the only way I know how: I have collected all the computers, calculators, and suspicious looking television sets into a big pile and started a bonfire out of them. I saw smokey demons escaping from the computers as they burned, maybe that's a good sign. I'll replace them, eventually, but I doubt they will be missed here at the commune offices. I've bought many foot stools to take their place, and that's usually what they were used for by commune employees.

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