First, there was the Ninth Circuit Court of Appeals upholding the Walker
ruling that found Prop 8 was unconstitutional. The populace of
California, many of whom graduated from the eighth grade, did not have
the right to deny legal rights to select parts of the Constitution.
I immediately ran over the the County Courthouse, and found thousands of
married couples lining up to file for divorce. No surprise there, of
course. This is, after all, California. But the crowd seemed more
agitated than usual.
I spoke to one beefy looking lumberjack sort who was towing a sweet
little eighteen year old thing while crying convulsively and wiping snot
off on his flannel sleeve.
“Wrong team won the Superbowl?” I asked, cautiously.
“N-n-no! I won $50 bucks on that. It's this faggot marriage thing!”
“Um, the Prop 8 ruling.”
“Whatever number it was. It's wrong, just wrong. The bible sez so!”
“So why are you here?”
“Giting a dee-vorce!” I looked at his wife, who shrugged and gave me a
fuzzy smile. Oxycontin is still popular in these parts.
“Divorce, eh? And does this have something to do with Prop 8?”
“Them faggots marryin'? You bet it does. Now that they can marry, it's
ruined it for guys like me!”
“Well, ever' time ah looks at my wife, and turn off the light and pull
her close, whut I sees in my minds eye is the big hairy ass of some
“You see a … trucker's ass?”
“Yeah. You know. A bear. Big and strong, but nice and sweet. A Gentle Ben.”
“And that ruins it for you?”
The lumberjack eyed me suspiciously. “Well, of COURSE! Do I look like a
faggot to you?
I decided it was time to elbow my way into the courthouse and see how
the authorities were dealing with it. I spotted a municipal judge.
“Excuse me, judge?
He peered at me sharply. “I remember you. 'I was speeding because I
wanted to get to the gas station before I ran out of gas', right?”
“Um, my twin brother. We've never met. Judge, what's going on here?
“You never met your twin brother? Just as well, really. He's a bad
driver. What's going on here is that all these people have decided that
letting gays get married has destroyed the institution, and they are
getting divorced to protest.”
“That doesn't make any sense.”
He shrugged. “They're members of a party but professional ethics prevent
me from discussing which political party it is.”
“Ah. I might be able to guess. Say, Judge, how would you like to do
California a favor?
“Could you rule that gays have the right to vote? Maybe these guys will
think that's ruined voting for them.”
The judge pulled his head back, considering. Then he grinned. “A bit
hard to work that into a failure-to-appear case, but I'll see what I can
Next stop was the local Santorum Campaign headquarters. It was pretty
easy to spot, with the big tall red banners with the black cross in the
white circle on each one. I walked past the slogans “One God, One Land,
One Mind” and “Faith is more powerful than Knowledge” and into the main
hall, where dozens of secretaries were stuffing envelopes and making
phone calls. I figured they would be pretty upset about Prop 8, but
instead they were celebrating Santorum's stunning upset wins in
Colorado, Minnesota, and Missouri. I wasn't quite sure how being
slightly preferred by the 5% of eligible voters who bothered to vote
translated to a vast populist wave, especially when your opponents are a
vapid plutocrat, a disagreeable washed-up demagogue, and a crackpot who
hangs around with Nazis, but in politics, you take victories where you
can find them. Hitler, after all, parlayed getting 31% of the popular
vote into an iron dictatorship that killed tens of millions of people,
so winning three Republican primaries had to be worth at least a small
Genocide was definitely on the minds of the Santorum people. Many of the
desks had glass jars about 14” tall on them, tightly sealed. I peered
into the nearest one. “Is that a human embryo?” I asked.
“Yes, that's Sally! She's our youngest, and we're very proud of her.
She's so well behaved.”
“I'm sure she has a great future. But why is she here? And why do all
these other people have jars on their desks?”
“Oh, it's 'Bring-Your-Children-To-Work' Day. She pointed over to the
next desk, which had about a dozen jars on it. “She's Catholic, you
know” she whispered.
I didn't know, and didn't particularly want to know.
“So what's next for the Santorum campaign?”
“Why do you want to know that?”
“Well, I'm a reporter. It's the sort of question reporters ask.”
She pressed a button on the side of her desk, and moments later I was
being escorted, feet two inches off the ground, out of the building. The
not-so Gentle Bens tossed me into the street. I dusted myself off,
noting that my phone and recorder had gone missing, and cursed my
stupidity. Never admit to a Republican that you are with the press. They
get really violent, sometimes.
That left one last stop before I called it a day.
To my surprise, the local Church of the Latter-Day Saints was closed.
There was a sign on the door. “We're remodeling. Go bug the Baptists.”
Instead, I went and bought a house. Lucky for me, California had just
reached an agreement with the banks that anyone who wanted a house could
get one, and the banks would pay. At least, that's what the guy in the
dark glasses and robe told me, and he gave me a “fixer upper”, a place
that had been foreclosed six months ago. I only had to pay him a $2,500
deposit, in cash since his ATM was broken. He hook a thumb at the
“Property Foreclosed, Bank Property. Keep Out”. “I'll send someone
around tomorrow to remove that.”
So, all in all, a good day.
Unless, of course, you are Mitt Romney or have a pathological fear of