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ENDA: The End of Religious Freedom in America

On those cloudy days, Robert Neville was never sure when the sunset came, and some times they were in the streets before he could get back home in his pickup truck. He could have been more analytical about it, but he still liked to judge nightfall by the sky. When the clouds rolled in that method did not work and he liked to stay near the house on those days. With a tape of an old Chicago Bears game playing in the background, Neville walked around the house checking each window to make sure none of the boards had been loosened. After violent attacks, the boards were often partially pried off or had feathered boas hanging off of them. Sometimes they got a hand or two inside and tried to adjust or even replace the curtains he had put up. Once he even found his yard perfectly manicured and breathtaking arrangements of colorful flowers in beautiful hand painted pots.

It was the nights that were the worst for Robert Neville. Hundreds of them gathered outside of his house, all fabulously dressed. There were words in their language Robert could not understand – brie, GQ, pedicure, Broadway, man grooming, Ikea, catmint, teal, Revos, Ketamine, Malbec, Bravo, etc. Culture, art, fashion, this thing called NPR. Neville could overhear their discussions on these matters, but it was like a black hole of meaning to him. What the hell food group does these capers they are always taking about fit into? Who is this Kathy Griffith and why is she funny? Then came the talking among themselves about these things called feelings. Robert thought he had known all the full range of emotion: “I’m hungry.” “I want to have sex with her.” “I need a beer.” “I’ll pretend to be interested in what she has to say because I want to have sex with her.” “I want to punch that guy in the face.” “I hope she shuts up pretty soon so we can have sex.” “That is an awesome car.” “She’s crazy. I bet she is good in bed.” “What’s on TV?” “Just lie to her so we can maybe have sex later on.” “It would be cool to own a big gun.” “I wonder if the neighbors would notice if I put up a sex swing in the living room. I could use power tools.” “I wonder what game is on ESPN right now.” “Where’s my porn?” But these guys cried, and not just when they hit their thumb with a hammer. They showed emotions that women pulled out to end any argument. They wanted to talk about the relationship, the uncomfortable ones, and they hugged each other and not just because they were Italian or their favorite team scored a touchdown. Then came the music, show tunes and dancing. Real men are like the state of Utah, Bermuda triangles where all rhythm vanishes but they, these creatures, could keep time with the beat. It made Neville want to soundproof the house.

The whole time their leader Ben Cortman stood in front of the house and shouted, “Come out of the closet, Neville!” “Your hands are so dry. We know you want to use moisturizer. Come out of the closet, Neville!” “We have a personal trainer and a tailor out here. Give you those six pack abs you always wanted. Think how you would look in a form fitting Italian suit. Come out of the closet, Neville!” “Think how clean and energized your skin would feel with some Aveda anti-humectant pomade rubbed on it. Come out of the closet, Neville!” “Think about it, Neville. Sex anytime you want. Never I’m too tired, or I’ve got a headache. Come out of the closet, Neville!”

And the women… at least they looked like women. Cher, Liza Minnelli, Judy Garland, Mariah Carey, Bette Davis, Kylie Minogue, Lady Gaga… Did he have to think about them again? Always standing in the yard, beckoning to him.

During the daylight hours it was easy to find the places they slept. Their houses, if other humans still existed, would have increased the home values in the community. A Prius or some other hybrid car might be parked in the driveway. Exotic knick-knacks could be found downstairs, things that children would have broken long ago so there was no way a straight couple could have lived there. The real conclusive proof was the linen closet, that they had a linen closet, but more importantly all the sheets were at least 300 count 100 percent cotton sheets. Once their presence was established, Robert Neville quickly dispatched them with a stake to the heart. Yet, he never got used to it. Their breathing. The stake pressed against the expensive pajamas and the mallet coming down. The tightening of the muscles. Sometimes they woke, looked at him, looked at the stake and gasped. After years of doing it, Neville concluded that it was the shock of having something so ugly and clashing with their outfits that killed them. Robert Neville was a legend. The last heterosexual male in the world.

How had Neville gotten here? While they had always been in the shadows, hung out in their bars and worked for Republican Congressmen, clothing establishments, interior design firms, Broadway revues or in ice shows. How they came to be the way they were, or where the meeting to come up with their agenda happened, no one is quite sure. Some claim it was in Liberace’s piano shaped pool, or on the set of The Pajama Game, or even in a subterranean cavern on a mythical place called Fire Island. Like the domino theory, the first phase was to simply ask the police to stop harassing them. All these brave gentlemen of the law were doing was protecting children by going into adult drinking establishments in the middle of the night and clubbing a drag queen or two in the head. We had the children to think about. Then, they asked to not be considered mentally ill by psychologists. Everyone knows there is no homosexuality in nature, except for basically every animal species, but that is beside the point. Then they noticed the Constitution stated that all men are created equal. Of course the founding fathers did not mean them, but if you are going to let African-Americans, women and the handicapped have equal rights; you might as well allow everyone else in, and their family pets to boot. Next came gay marriage because that meant they were equal. People laughed when modern Cassandras, like Anita Bryant, claimed it destroyed the institution of marriage. They did not notice the cracks in the damn. If it wasn’t for gay marriage, godly men like Karl Rove, Rush Limbaugh, Mel Gibson, Jesse James, and Tiger Woods would never have gotten divorced. Behind the scenes they set up straight pillars of the community, like Rev. Ted Haggard, Mark Foley, and Larry Craig. Barrack Obama won the White House. Next, destroying the morale of our military, because while our young men and women could beat Al-Qaida, they were too sensitive to work next to Adam and Steve. With the military demoralized and Godly men out of the way, they moved to the next part of their agenda, assuming control of the United States. They recruited all elementary school children across the land into amoral lifestyles, removed the Presidents from Mount Rushmore and replacing them with Rip Taylor, Charles Nelson Reilly, Paul Lynde, and the guy who played Mr. Brady. Dogs started sleeping with cats.

Robert had not noticed it until his friend Harley had made a comment about Neville looking good in his jeans. Soon after that, Billy Bob asked to brush his hair. Friends started talking about soccer. Football jerseys replaced by polo shirts. Beer by wine spritzers. The National Anthem by “It’s Raining Men.” Man purses followed. It was only after Jimmy Buffett was arrested and hung for crimes against music that Neville realized he was the last straight man on earth. “I am legend,” he thought.

There are documentaries that are so filled with lies, half-truths and fear mongering that they are not even worth addressing. Homosexuals are not trying to convert children. The only agenda they have is to have the same rights as you and I and to be treated with respect. If you believe the rapture right’s rhetoric, an I Am Legend world is what homosexuals want. The tale I told above is ridiculous, but not anymore ridiculous than some of the stuff claimed by those on the extreme right.

Verdict: Strike out