Sacred Vow

Steve Wiecking

Sometimes I start to feel pushy, like those teenage troublemakers in Little Rock in 1957, and all my reason just goes right out the window. Something clouds my vision, some fraudulent air of entitlement that causes me to believe I'm an equal in the eyes of the law. I start to toss around the idea that I should have the same freedoms as every other citizen. This is a dangerous state of mind for someone like me, so I immediately shift my focus to what I do best—accept Tony Awards, cruise adolescents, and help straight guys pick out cute denim jackets. Remember your place, I tell myself, and turn that frown upside down, girlfriend!

I'm confessing all this because I let myself get carried away recently over that nasty business in Massachusetts, what with the state in a hissy about the idea of gay marriage. For a few seconds there, I actually told myself that it was unconstitutional to keep any two responsible adults from acknowledging their romantic and familial bonds and protecting their shared assets. (Eek! Mary, what was I thinking?! I can't lose my sense of purpose now, just because some rabble-rousers on the East Coast are getting uppity. When America needs a new throw pillow, I have to be there and be proud.)

I've been taught to know better. Of course, being homosexual, I haven't had much personal exposure to committed relationships, but, honey, I have seen enough of The Bachelor, The Bachelorette, Average Joe, and Joe Millionaire to know that they are the reverent, exclusive provenance of straight people. Why, just a few weeks ago, I was tearing up as a couple exchanged holy vows and headed for an all-expenses-paid excursion to Disneyworld on Extreme Makeover—right after they both had liposuction, eye tucks, and nose and chin jobs and were sealed with enough plastic to keep their vegetables crisp for the rest of their natural lives.

Yet, still, I had a weak moment the other night and thought the whole issue smacked of hypocrisy. Luckily, I happened to be flipping through television channels during a commercial break and landed on Nightline, where the debate was raging and some thoroughly superficial lesbian was being told where to go by a concerned gal who knew that heterosexuals, silly, are the only people capable of understanding the gravity of human connection. I had forgotten this, lost as I was in Elimidate, on which a drunk, large-breasted blond woman with a pierced tongue was giving a lap dance to some drunk guy while two other drunk women waited to find out if they were going to be kicked out of the competition.

It feels good to have come to my senses again. Seeing that presumptuous lesbian on Nightline brought me right back to reality. It's perfectly clear that allowing two grown women with bad haircuts to book the Holiday Inn, hire a lame DJ, feed their friends bad chicken, and dance to Holly Near will negatively impact the union of every upstanding husband and wife in the United States of America. I hope President Bush sees to it that the country is protected from such tomfoolery. The sanctity of marriage is something I, too, will do my best to uphold as the profound moral right of heterosexuals. And so will Britney next time.

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