Functionally ReTodded

Heath Ledger died yesterday of an overdose.  My wife told me when I got home.  Since I was working in my storage room the last few hours of the day and no longer listen to terrestrial radio on the way home, this snippet of news escaped me for a few hours.

First, let me point out that Heath Ledger’s death won’t have any effect on my life or me.  I mean, I’m not happy about it, but I’ll probably forget about it as soon as I see something shiny out of the corner of my eye. And as it turns out, when my wife told yesterday, a picture of Jake Gyllenhaal showed up in my head, which means I had my gay cowboy movie actors confused.

Which brings me to today’s rant.

Remember recently I discussed a documentary I saw about “Reverend” Fred Phelps and the Westboro Baptist Church (A.K.A.  The tacky ass faux wood paneled basement where he and his inbred retard family get together and express their homophobia together and poison the limited minds of the younger generations of Phelps’ family).

Mr. Phelps is famous (mocked and laughed at) because virtually the entire platform upon which he screams is built on hatred for homosexuals and blaming bad things on homosexuals.  He uses his fear of gay people as an excuse to stand at the funerals of fallen American soldiers and scream his idiocy while carrying brightly colored (some might even go so far as to say GAYLY colored) signs with brilliant and thought provoking phrases like “God hates fags  Romans 9:13” or “AIDS kills fags dead” or “No tears for queers” and many others.

Now, I will go on record saying I am not a Bible Scholar.  I might not be able to pick the bible out of a pile of books on a table.  But I am willing to bet my life, home, family and the future of the planet that the book of Romans Chapter 9 verse 13 does not say “God hates fags.”

Oh look.  I Googled Romans 9:13 and it said “As it is written, Jacob have I loved, but Esau have I hated.”  Now I have no idea what that means, but I don’t see anything about God hating fags.  But he doesn’t apparently hate dudes with weird names like Esau.  I even clicked on the link for Esau (http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/05527c.htm) and, although there were a lot of words, I didn’t see anything about God hating fags.

Unless of course they mean that God hates the British word for cigarettes, which I can believe.  I mean, smoking is supposed to make you look cool and get chicks, and that’s tough to do when you are at a bar walking around asking everyone “Hey, can you spare a fag?” or “Hey, where do I have to go to get a fag in my mouth?” or “Man, I sure would love to suck on a fag.”  You see what I mean.

So now it seems that the Westboro Baptist Church is planning to protest the funeral of Heath Ledger.

Why?  Oh that’s easy.  It’s because Ledger accepted a role to play a homosexual cowboy in a movie and because said role made him a fag enabler.  Oh and I guess to a lesser extent because Hollywood is full of gay, pot-smoking hippies.  And Jews.

Here’s a statement from the Westboro Baptist Church (from a flyer that appears to have been printed on a mimeograph machine like the kind you got in school and would sniff the ditto until you were very high):

“Heath Ledger thought it was great fun defying God Almighty and his plain word; to wit: God Hates Fags! & Fag Enablers! Ergo, God hates the sordid tacky, bucket of slime seasoned with vomit known as ‘Brokeback Mountain’ - and He hates all persons having anything whatsoever to do with it.

Heath Ledger is now in Hell, and has begun serving his eternal sentence there - beside which, nothing else about Heath Ledger is relevant or consequential.”

Now, all of that hate and ignorance aside, I love the fact that Reverend Phred speaks FOR GOD when he says that God hates “the sordid tacky, bucket of slime seasoned with vomit known as ‘Brokeback Mountain.’ “

Tacky, bucket of slime seasoned with vomit?  Wow.

And I thought I was a visionary in college when I uttered the following phrase when asked if I was interested in doing something quite unappealing:

 I’d rather lick the vomit off a lollipop turd.”

Not bad eh? 

Maybe the RevPhred has been plagiarizing some of my old works.

So now we get to spend a week with Fred and the Phelpsians being on television and the gossipy Hollywood shows spouting idiocy and somehow linking Brokeback to a roadside IED in Iraq.

Of course that means that Phelps and company would have to get their hate and giant signs to Australia for the funeral.   Considering Phelps seldom leaves his own time zone, I would think that a trip down under could be traumatic and very expensive for the cash-strapped worshippers.

Plus, if you factor in that the water goes down the drain backwards and there are egg-laying mammals there and people with funny accents, I’m pretty sure that God hates Australia and the he has cursed the entire island/country/continent.  Then the next thing you know he’ll say God hated the Crocodile Hunter and that’s why his holy ass kicker sent that Manta Ray to kill him.

Could be worse I guess.  I could have to endure another 10 months of Hillary and Obama fighting like two drunken women in a trailer park.

Hey…wait a minute…

For those that don’t know, I live in a quiet little suburb about half an hour from downtown Atlanta.

It is a meteorological fact that it doesn’t snow here much.

It’s a God given absolute that most people in this town can’t drive worth shit.  I blame that as much on cellphones and makeup application as I do the fact that all of the  illegals undocumented worker visitors, that do our city’s house painting drive white vans with no windows carrying roughly 138 extension ladders tied on with duct tape.  Combining that cumbersome load with the fact that they come from places like Mexico, Guatemala, Puerto Rico, and other tropical locales where snow is rare and driving in snowy conditions is rarer, and you get a city of panic, gridlock and uninsured motoristic insanity.

What you may not know is that folks in these here parts get right nutty when local weatherman Holden McGroyn has the audacity to stand up in front of his green screen, point somewhere and use the words frozen and precipitation in the same sentence.

So yesterday at about 3pm or so, I started hearing mutterings around the lobby about the dreaded S word.

No.  Not sadomasochism.  Not Scientology either.  I’m talking about SNOW.

It’s quite funny really.  Once word starts to spread, it’s like everyone turns into a seven year old kid with ADD and Tourette syndrome.  Zero gets done the second the word snow is mentioned.

So I headed home last night to everyone saying “good luck getting in tomorrow” or “Hope you don’t get stuck.”

Whatever.  There hasn’t been a semi-bonified snowstorm here since SnowJam ’93.  (See?  Snow of any consequence is so rare here that when it snows, we name it something).

So you watch the local news, and all you see is hicks flocking to the local Blue or Orange big box store where they buy all of the generators to sell on the black market.  Then they hit the local grocery like crazy folks the day after Thanksgiving, only instead of Tickle Me Elmo they want all of the milk, bread, bottled water and canned food that the store can stock.

It’s retarded.  I contend that in the last 15 years, there hasn’t been a snowstorm in Atlanta that a family of four couldn’t have survived by eating only what was on the bottom shelf in their pantry for the duration.  And besides, if I were truly snowbound for a period requiring a dozen loaves of bread, a generator and 12 gallons of milk, I assure you that I would skip the four major food groups altogether and head right to the beer section.

(In college, we had a fairly big snow/ice storm back in 1988.  Nearly the entire town shut down.  No grocery stores were open. No classes were scheduled.  Hell, even the restaurants were closed.  But every liquor store in town was running a generator to keep power in the store, and the one near us had a line of thirsty people outside of it that made you think Springsteen tickets were being given away inside).

So what did I do on the way home you might ask?

Hit the Home Depot of course.  You can fuck off if you think I, FRT, am going to be caught unprepared.

The only problem was that they were all out of bottled water, generators and kerosene heaters.  So I did what any sufficiently panicked snow-tard my age would do:

I bought 71 rolls of duct tape, 1200 Fantasy blue petunias and a John Deere riding lawn tractor.

Happy trapped in the snow fuckos!!