Got It All Wrong

Instead of marching through the desert’s blood dust in the hot aroma of sulfur, ISIS should follow in the path of the other Isis, the Protector of the Dead.

That Dude in a red mustang blasting Wilson Phillips got it all wrong. He should have been driving an IROC Z. Topless. 

The Dancin' Kid got it all wrong. Okay, not all wrong. Shaving that three-year-old's head was brilliant. He looks like a Fukushima Baby of enormous potential. I couldn't have done that better myself. But I would have first taught the kid to moonwalk. And then I would have placed him on a glass stage overlooking a pit filled with tigers and vipers. Kid just moonwalks across as the tigers leap up to try to eat him and the vipers slither about seeking passage through the glass. Dancin' Kid wears sunglasses so he can't see the animalistic mayhem writhing at his feet. But the sunglasses are attached to a fishing line so when he stops moonwalking and starts with the Supremesesque Baby Love moves, I yank the sunglasses from his face. Terror strikes the kid's eyes as he tastes the proximity of death. Pandemonium ensues. And to make it even better, I've brainwashed the kid's mother. Didn't take much. She's the one who put the twerp up to this dance, after all. She compels the terrified child to keep on dancin' by threatening to toss the judges one by one into the pit where they will certainly die. You want that on your conscience, Dancin' Kid?

-- Guy Grand's Royal Bastard, IV

If you speak in the Rose Garden, especially if you rock a one-third Taliban, one-third Russian Orthodox, and one-third Sawtooth Mountain Freak beard, and you wear your hair up in an Ozzy ponytail, you can’t do it in a white shirt without a jacket and in the only tie you’ve ever worn in your entire life, a tie better suited for a Republican city councilman in the suburbs of Couer d’Alene, especially if your wife looks practically normal in her ill-fitting, down-market Michelle Obama sequined dress. Come on, Daddy. You’re practically begging Bill O’Reilly to accuse you of palling around with the Terrorists. For goodness sake, you’ve at least got to wear a Robe of Many Colors, an array of Quartz Crystals, a Thurible hanging from either hand, and a UPC Code tattoo on the back of your God-Fearing neck. Play the part.

But whatever you do, don’t shave.

— Guy Grand’s Royal Bastard, IV

Manhandling a homophobic bigot just plays into his homoerotic fantasies. And, as an actress in the play complained, that bigot might have been armed, so Jeebus, what are you thinking? Do I need to put an exclamation mark after that question mark?!?

You, good sir, should have used Lucid Dreaming to cross-contaminate his consciousness. After getting your hands on the controls of a bigot who is cultured enough to attend the theater—already a shrinkingly tiny demographic—you should turn this Manchurian Audience Member toward the Light.

Drain his bank account and spend the money on a decomissioned school bus. Paint the bus in rainbow flag colors and travel around to those backward states still protesting marriage equality. Walk that bigot onto the steps of each state capitol and deliver a pro-equality speech. He is now the Anti–Anita Bryant

-- Guy Grand's Royal Bastard, IV