My street was quiet at 3:00—not a soul to be seen nor heard—except for one fat, white, middle-aged guy leaning against my neighbor's stoop, talking on his cell.
In the thickest you-got-a-purty-mouth backwoods accent, his conversation went a little like this:
"Yah. I'm in New Or-lee-unnz? And I'm lost. I can't find the MO-tel? And there's, like, rainbow flags n' shit? And I'm scared. I'm scared for mah life?"REALLY?, I thought. Scared for your LIFE? 'Cos of my little ole rainbow flag that I haven't taken down since Decadence?
"No, I don't know where I am. I'm lost. And I can't find the MO-tel. I'm so frightened. There's rainbow flags n' shit here? Should I call 911?"Does his Baptist preacher warn against the sudden, violent cornholing that all queers are just itchin' to toss into fat slobs like him?
"Can you just come find me? I'm lost. And I'm scared."I walked down the street towards the (rainbow-flag-bedecked) bar around the corner, singing loudly, "DANG-O-DANG-O-DANG-O-DANG!"
Though in retrospect, I should have minced my way over to him, put a calm, reassuring, caressing hand on his meaty shoulder, and lisped, "Oh, Mary. There'th no need to be thcared. By the way, you've got the purtietht little mouth!"