If you have four minutes and forty-four seconds to spare, you may want to check out Bill O’Reilly as he pontificates, supposedly, on the degenerative effects of San Francisco values. He opens this segment, entitled the “Unresolved Problem,” with the question, “Where will the new Obama administration take the country?” The video ends with the following illuminating exchange between O’Reilly and his producer, Jesse Watters:
WATTERS: Well, I found in Central Park at night now, at least after Rudy Giuliani, you can go out at night and walk around and feel safe. But in San Francisco, you don't even go near some of these parks at night.
O'REILLY: No, you wouldn't go to the Presidio at night in San Francisco. I wouldn't. So you felt that New York, or you feel that New York is much more under control than San Francisco?
WATTERS: It is. In New York, you know, you have your pockets of bad places. But in San Francisco, it's prevalent throughout a lot of the city.
O'REILLY: So wherever you went, Fisherman's Wharf and all that, you saw these guys?
WATTERS: Almost every single neighborhood has this dark underbelly that seeps into their regular society.
Here are my immediate observations:
1) I’m confident that Jesse Watters would be raped if he strolled through Central Park at night, perhaps even in the late afternoon.
2) I have no idea what this broadcast has to do with San Francisco, Barack Obama, or values—of any kind.
3) Given the deliberately selected cast of caricatured stereotypes depicted in the video, if I was one of “these guys,” to borrow O’Reilly’s code, I’d be very pleased with my decision not to vote Republican.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Destination: Vernon, Alabama!
Today, I’ve decided to unveil my first new post in what hopefully will be a recurring blog segment: my very own ‘Travel Section.’
As I’m a refined and resourceful gentleman, I feel it’s my duty to occasionally spotlight one of the many delightful, and yet seldom visited, tucked-away municipalities that pepper the landscape of our wondrous nation. Without further ado, allow me to take you away to tranquil Vernon, Alabama.
According to the official Vernon website, maintained by the Vernon Volunteer Fire Department, it is “a city rich in history.” The foremost landmark is “the Jason Guin home, where the first elected Sheriff of the county kept his prisoners” circa 1860. I can’t help but admire the Sheriff’s devotion to law and order; as I understand it, there were a lot of “prisoners” trying to escape the South in the early 1860s.
According to the 2000 census, of the 2,143 people in Vernon, 86.2 percent identified themselves as “white,” 12.7 percent as “black.”
If you click on the ‘Southern Air’ tab on the Vernon homepage, you’ll discover that: “Here you will find true southern hospitality and charm. Where the ladies have honey dripping from every word.”
Here are some highlights from an article that mentions Vernon in yesterday’s New York Times, entitled: ‘For South, A Waning Hold on National Politics’ –
Race was a strong subtext in post-election conversations across the socioeconomic spectrum here in Vernon, the small, struggling seat of Lamar County on the Mississippi border.
One white woman said she feared that blacks would now become more “aggressive,” while another volunteered that she was bothered by the idea of a black man “over me” in the White House.
Don Dollar, the administrative assistant at City Hall, said bitterly that anyone not upset with Mr. Obama’s victory should seek religious forgiveness.
“This is a community that’s supposed to be filled with a bunch of Christian folks,” he said. “If they’re not disappointed, they need to be at the altar.”
“I am concerned,” Gail McDaniel, who owns a cosmetics business, said in the parking lot of the Shop and Save. “The abortion thing bothers me. Same-sex marriage.”
“I think there are going to be outbreaks from blacks,” she added. “From where I’m from, this is going to give them the right to be more aggressive.”
Thank you for allowing me to introduce you to this charming southern town. I’m hoping that we can plan a group weekend trip to Vernon in the near future. I’d like to visit soon, before 272 of its citizens start becoming aggressive.
As I’m a refined and resourceful gentleman, I feel it’s my duty to occasionally spotlight one of the many delightful, and yet seldom visited, tucked-away municipalities that pepper the landscape of our wondrous nation. Without further ado, allow me to take you away to tranquil Vernon, Alabama.
According to the official Vernon website, maintained by the Vernon Volunteer Fire Department, it is “a city rich in history.” The foremost landmark is “the Jason Guin home, where the first elected Sheriff of the county kept his prisoners” circa 1860. I can’t help but admire the Sheriff’s devotion to law and order; as I understand it, there were a lot of “prisoners” trying to escape the South in the early 1860s.
According to the 2000 census, of the 2,143 people in Vernon, 86.2 percent identified themselves as “white,” 12.7 percent as “black.”
If you click on the ‘Southern Air’ tab on the Vernon homepage, you’ll discover that: “Here you will find true southern hospitality and charm. Where the ladies have honey dripping from every word.”
Here are some highlights from an article that mentions Vernon in yesterday’s New York Times, entitled: ‘For South, A Waning Hold on National Politics’ –
Race was a strong subtext in post-election conversations across the socioeconomic spectrum here in Vernon, the small, struggling seat of Lamar County on the Mississippi border.
One white woman said she feared that blacks would now become more “aggressive,” while another volunteered that she was bothered by the idea of a black man “over me” in the White House.
Don Dollar, the administrative assistant at City Hall, said bitterly that anyone not upset with Mr. Obama’s victory should seek religious forgiveness.
“This is a community that’s supposed to be filled with a bunch of Christian folks,” he said. “If they’re not disappointed, they need to be at the altar.”
“I am concerned,” Gail McDaniel, who owns a cosmetics business, said in the parking lot of the Shop and Save. “The abortion thing bothers me. Same-sex marriage.”
“I think there are going to be outbreaks from blacks,” she added. “From where I’m from, this is going to give them the right to be more aggressive.”
Thank you for allowing me to introduce you to this charming southern town. I’m hoping that we can plan a group weekend trip to Vernon in the near future. I’d like to visit soon, before 272 of its citizens start becoming aggressive.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Gifted Children
Friday, November 7, 2008
Save the Bird
I woke up this morning to the vivid recollection of an event, a trauma really, from my childhood. It was jarring. I didn’t know why my subconscious had decided to begin my day with such a disturbing memory.
I was eight years old and living in a middle-class suburb of Chicago. Our modest neighborhood was abutted, at its northern border, by a sprawling, once grand, estate. This large wooded property was owned by a family who, long before, had possessed almost all the land in the entire township. Over the years they gradually sold parcels of their property to developers who snatched it up to build countless single-family homes. In the meantime, the remaining estate—a mansion, guest house, greenhouse, and pool, on roughly ten acres—became dilapidated and overgrown as the younger generation moved away. It had become a clandestine playground for mischievous boys in the neighborhood who would scale the imposing brick wall to escape the watchful eyes of their parents.
And so I found myself there often. On this day in particular I was with three friends: Jimmy and Scott, nine, and John, ten. Scott’s parents’ house was directly adjacent to the aged estate and his yard held a large oak tree that provided the cover and elevation we needed to propel ourselves over the red brick barrier. That afternoon’s activities were typical—shooting out windows of the greenhouse with a BB gun (which somebody usually had in tow), peeing into the opaque pool water, and reveling in the general mayhem that’s born of walled-off impunity.
At some point near dusk, after we tired of our roguish antics, we regrouped at a clearing in the trees near the hop-point back to Scott’s yard. It was our closing ritual; we always met in this place, our own hallowed ground.
As we sauntered up to the clearing we noticed a tiny baby bird flailing about in the dirt. The fledgling, clearly panicked, was chirping wildly. He looked weak and injured. We knew, undoubtedly, that he had fallen from a nest high above in the oak tree. We sat there for a minute, unsure of what to do. Then somebody, I don’t recall who, said that we should “put him out of his misery.”
Justifications followed: “I’ve got to get home.” “I don’t have time to help bring him somewhere.” “It will hurt him more if we move him.” “The mother bird probably will reject him now anyway.” and most resonant, “He’ll be better off this way.”
I said nothing. I really wanted to help him. I think that we all wanted to help him, but instead of finding the right solution, we grasped the easiest, one that offered the comfort of collective responsibility and the relief of instant gratification. In retrospect, our actions actually turned out to be the most difficult to deal with in the long run.
Jimmy, who was physically the largest, picked a huge rock. With both hands, he hoisted it up above his head. I remember wanting to dive forward, to cradle the bird in my hands and protect it from danger, but my body wouldn’t move.
The rock struck with a loud thud that reverberated off the brick wall behind us. It rolled off to the side. The little bird was still alive. It lay there bloodied and mangled, still moving its wings ever so slightly. Instantly, all of us scrambled together to raise the rock up and release it once more. Again the rock rolled off. This time the bird was crushed and no longer moving. I wanted to cry but held back.
None of us could speak. I couldn’t stop staring at the ground, at him. Eventually I turned away and followed my friends back over the wall. We never spoke about that day again.
Sitting here now, I know why I was hit with the memory this morning. It occurred to me while thinking about what I did last night before bed. I was online, reading the “Final Statement” from the No on Prop 8 Campaign. It conceded that California, the place I call home, “said yes to bigotry, yes to discrimination, and yes to second-class status for same-sex couples.” It made me feel ashamed, like that scared eight-year-old boy.
Given the chance to do the right thing, to simply allow a bird to live its life, I failed. I stood by complicit, ignoring my instincts, and allowed my voice to be silenced by the voices of others.
I was eight years old and living in a middle-class suburb of Chicago. Our modest neighborhood was abutted, at its northern border, by a sprawling, once grand, estate. This large wooded property was owned by a family who, long before, had possessed almost all the land in the entire township. Over the years they gradually sold parcels of their property to developers who snatched it up to build countless single-family homes. In the meantime, the remaining estate—a mansion, guest house, greenhouse, and pool, on roughly ten acres—became dilapidated and overgrown as the younger generation moved away. It had become a clandestine playground for mischievous boys in the neighborhood who would scale the imposing brick wall to escape the watchful eyes of their parents.
And so I found myself there often. On this day in particular I was with three friends: Jimmy and Scott, nine, and John, ten. Scott’s parents’ house was directly adjacent to the aged estate and his yard held a large oak tree that provided the cover and elevation we needed to propel ourselves over the red brick barrier. That afternoon’s activities were typical—shooting out windows of the greenhouse with a BB gun (which somebody usually had in tow), peeing into the opaque pool water, and reveling in the general mayhem that’s born of walled-off impunity.
At some point near dusk, after we tired of our roguish antics, we regrouped at a clearing in the trees near the hop-point back to Scott’s yard. It was our closing ritual; we always met in this place, our own hallowed ground.
As we sauntered up to the clearing we noticed a tiny baby bird flailing about in the dirt. The fledgling, clearly panicked, was chirping wildly. He looked weak and injured. We knew, undoubtedly, that he had fallen from a nest high above in the oak tree. We sat there for a minute, unsure of what to do. Then somebody, I don’t recall who, said that we should “put him out of his misery.”
Justifications followed: “I’ve got to get home.” “I don’t have time to help bring him somewhere.” “It will hurt him more if we move him.” “The mother bird probably will reject him now anyway.” and most resonant, “He’ll be better off this way.”
I said nothing. I really wanted to help him. I think that we all wanted to help him, but instead of finding the right solution, we grasped the easiest, one that offered the comfort of collective responsibility and the relief of instant gratification. In retrospect, our actions actually turned out to be the most difficult to deal with in the long run.
Jimmy, who was physically the largest, picked a huge rock. With both hands, he hoisted it up above his head. I remember wanting to dive forward, to cradle the bird in my hands and protect it from danger, but my body wouldn’t move.
The rock struck with a loud thud that reverberated off the brick wall behind us. It rolled off to the side. The little bird was still alive. It lay there bloodied and mangled, still moving its wings ever so slightly. Instantly, all of us scrambled together to raise the rock up and release it once more. Again the rock rolled off. This time the bird was crushed and no longer moving. I wanted to cry but held back.
None of us could speak. I couldn’t stop staring at the ground, at him. Eventually I turned away and followed my friends back over the wall. We never spoke about that day again.
Sitting here now, I know why I was hit with the memory this morning. It occurred to me while thinking about what I did last night before bed. I was online, reading the “Final Statement” from the No on Prop 8 Campaign. It conceded that California, the place I call home, “said yes to bigotry, yes to discrimination, and yes to second-class status for same-sex couples.” It made me feel ashamed, like that scared eight-year-old boy.
Given the chance to do the right thing, to simply allow a bird to live its life, I failed. I stood by complicit, ignoring my instincts, and allowed my voice to be silenced by the voices of others.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Political Strategery
As we bid farewell to another campaign season, I wanted to take a moment to review my favorite political ads:
Please don't annihilate my child
Picking up dog poop = Experience
Hosed
Dude, I'm the Peace Czar
San Francisco soiree, in Missouri?
Please don't annihilate my child
Picking up dog poop = Experience
Hosed
Dude, I'm the Peace Czar
San Francisco soiree, in Missouri?
Lusting for Knowledge
Congratulations to Barack Obama, the next President of the United States of America! I won’t attempt to articulate the enormous significance of this event; plenty of others will do it far more eloquently. I will simply say that I cannot recall starting a day with a feeling of such overwhelming elation and optimism since the morning after my wedding…and on that morning, I was still really drunk.
In addition to cheering for the election winner, I’d like to take a moment to welcome back the real John McCain. Senator McCain gave a graceful and heartfelt concession speech last night. I look forward to hearing his candid thoughts now that he’s unshackled from the hacks running his campaign. I’m hopeful that the old maverick will revisit some of his previous declarations, like this one on the religious fringe: “Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance.”
On a related note, I sure will miss seeing Sarah Palin in the media everyday. Oh I’m sure she won’t disappear. We’ll occasionally be treated to a spontaneous quote on the diplomatic expertise that comes from geographical proximity. Maybe, if we’re lucky, some pervy kid will catch a Palin nipple slip with his iPhone and post it online. If nothing else, she has reinvigorated a classic icon—the naughty librarian. All over the country, droves of adolescent boys will be fighting for cubicle space and cramming their backpacks full-o-books in an effort to catch a glimpse of the bespectacled moms behind their local checkout counters. In between frantic lusty gawking, sweaty palms, and uncomfortably adjusting their pants, these kids might actually learn something. For that, Governor, I thank you.
In addition to cheering for the election winner, I’d like to take a moment to welcome back the real John McCain. Senator McCain gave a graceful and heartfelt concession speech last night. I look forward to hearing his candid thoughts now that he’s unshackled from the hacks running his campaign. I’m hopeful that the old maverick will revisit some of his previous declarations, like this one on the religious fringe: “Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance.”
On a related note, I sure will miss seeing Sarah Palin in the media everyday. Oh I’m sure she won’t disappear. We’ll occasionally be treated to a spontaneous quote on the diplomatic expertise that comes from geographical proximity. Maybe, if we’re lucky, some pervy kid will catch a Palin nipple slip with his iPhone and post it online. If nothing else, she has reinvigorated a classic icon—the naughty librarian. All over the country, droves of adolescent boys will be fighting for cubicle space and cramming their backpacks full-o-books in an effort to catch a glimpse of the bespectacled moms behind their local checkout counters. In between frantic lusty gawking, sweaty palms, and uncomfortably adjusting their pants, these kids might actually learn something. For that, Governor, I thank you.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Revelation on the Dance Floor
If you are a registered California voter and govern your decisions, even in part, by logic and rational thinking, then I thank you for voting ‘No’ on Proposition 8.
For today’s post, I’ve decided to write a letter to the devout and dedicated folks at “ProtectMarriage.com,” to be delivered on Wednesday, November 5th.
Dear Sirs:
Hello, Hallelujah, and God Bless You! I am writing for two reasons: first, to offer my condolences in this time of defeat. Though Prop 8 failed to pass, Our Lord and Savior will most certainly not fail to pass judgment on the gays. We’ll see how much they enjoy sodomy once they realize that it will be eternally thrust upon them by Satan—with his fiery pronged penis!
Second, I would like to volunteer to assist your organization in the continued struggle against sexual deviants, heathens, and career-minded women. I believe that my unique personal perspective could be useful in liberating people from homosexuality. Though in my youth I always partook in masculine activities (Boy Scouts, Greco-Roman wrestling team, pledging a fraternity, etc.), I have occasionally been tempted to stray from the path of righteousness. I don’t mean this in the traditional sense; I have never had a male appendage inserted into my rectum, other than the finger of a doctor (it was only later that I found out he held a PhD in Comparative Literature). My problem is that I am musically gay.
Alone in the shower I belt out Whitney Houston. There are multiple Britney Spears CDs tucked under the driver’s seat of my car. And I really, really like the mixes they play where I workout, at Gold’s Gym in the Castro. Worse yet, I often find my body moving to the beat against my will, as if the Devil himself has possessed my hips. Dance is wrong, it is not Christian; I know because I’ve seen the movie “Footloose” a dozen times. But gloriously, in these moments of quivering temptation, I bite my lower lip, beg for Him, and He comes: Jesus Christ! Really, He does. Sometimes at the gym when an ABBA song is playing, I conclude a fierce bench pressing with jazz hands. Ashamed, I pray to Him. I know He hears me because every time I’m able to overcome the yearning to flutter my fingers. Then He rewards me by giving me the strength to climactically push up a grunting vein-popping new single-rep max.
Recently it occurred to me that I could strategically harness my spiritual weakness for use in battle against the gays. The gays are drawn to music and dancing, or so I am told. Thus, I propose that, with your help, I produce and direct a “musical” (a play that contains musical numbers and dancing) in the heart of their stronghold—San Francisco. Ostensibly, this will be just another colorful theater performance with chiseled men in unitards. But beneath the surface, the musical will deliver a subliminal message in support of traditional marriage: salvation lies within the vagina.
The title of our production will be “Revelation on the Dance Floor.” The stage will be set for apocalyptic battle as we reenact the Book of Revelation with song and dance. Rather than attaching the entire script and illustrated choreography (which is currently being printed in Bible Script font at Kinkos), I will summarize the final scene so that you can get an idea of how the message will be conveyed.
The trumpets will sound as the four horsemen stand, clad solely in chaps, hands-on-hips, in the corners of the stage. Blinding bright light will expose the pagans to the rapture. The naked bodies of the non-believers (representing Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and that pesky Tom Cruise with his army of space druids) will writhe in agony as judgment cometh. [Casting note: the backup dancers will double as the non-believers.] As the Devil prods the heathens, who are now laid out collectively to form a human dance floor, Jesus will be lowered onto the stage. It turns out, however, that Jesus has updated His appearance…I have a feeling that the gays will really appreciate His makeover.
In lieu of flowing white linen robes, JC will be clad in the manliest of outfits: a wrestling singlet. He will be tone, fit, and muscular. I mean, what else is there to do but lift weights while you’re waiting for the rapture? Gone will be His long flaxen hair. Instead, He will sport a strawberry blond faux-hawk (apparently, these are quite popular with the sodomites). Strobe lights will flash as Christ begins to slowly tap His feet on top of the non-believers. The momentum will rise up His leg and His pelvis will begin to gyrate. The Devil’s eyes will grow wide with fear as he senses the power of dancing Jesus. Resurrected Christ will hold up His hand and the light from the disco ball will shine through the holes in His palms and He’ll say something hip like, “In your face, Satan!” The cowering Devil will plunge down through a trapdoor in the stage, leaving a glistening well-built Jesus victorious atop the heap of non-believers (backup dancers now in the fetal position).
An image this raw and vital will undoubtedly have a spellbinding effect on an audience full of the gays. As the spotlight dims on dancing Jesus, the photograph of a massive immaculately-groomed vagina will be projected across the white stage backdrop. The image of our strapping Savior merging into the giant vagina will leave the spectators hypnotically entranced. They will exit the musical inexplicably lusting after female genitalia. And they will find themselves married and producing soldiers for the Lord before they can snap their fingers and say “eternal damnation.”
Anyway, I hope you now have faith in my plan to rehabilitate these lost souls. Please do not question my methods. We must convert them by any means necessary. Deceptive manipulation is perfectly acceptable when used for righteousness. Our values will improve their lives.
Ultimately, we must prevent them from imposing their way of life on everyone else.
Thank you for your time.
For today’s post, I’ve decided to write a letter to the devout and dedicated folks at “ProtectMarriage.com,” to be delivered on Wednesday, November 5th.
Dear Sirs:
Hello, Hallelujah, and God Bless You! I am writing for two reasons: first, to offer my condolences in this time of defeat. Though Prop 8 failed to pass, Our Lord and Savior will most certainly not fail to pass judgment on the gays. We’ll see how much they enjoy sodomy once they realize that it will be eternally thrust upon them by Satan—with his fiery pronged penis!
Second, I would like to volunteer to assist your organization in the continued struggle against sexual deviants, heathens, and career-minded women. I believe that my unique personal perspective could be useful in liberating people from homosexuality. Though in my youth I always partook in masculine activities (Boy Scouts, Greco-Roman wrestling team, pledging a fraternity, etc.), I have occasionally been tempted to stray from the path of righteousness. I don’t mean this in the traditional sense; I have never had a male appendage inserted into my rectum, other than the finger of a doctor (it was only later that I found out he held a PhD in Comparative Literature). My problem is that I am musically gay.
Alone in the shower I belt out Whitney Houston. There are multiple Britney Spears CDs tucked under the driver’s seat of my car. And I really, really like the mixes they play where I workout, at Gold’s Gym in the Castro. Worse yet, I often find my body moving to the beat against my will, as if the Devil himself has possessed my hips. Dance is wrong, it is not Christian; I know because I’ve seen the movie “Footloose” a dozen times. But gloriously, in these moments of quivering temptation, I bite my lower lip, beg for Him, and He comes: Jesus Christ! Really, He does. Sometimes at the gym when an ABBA song is playing, I conclude a fierce bench pressing with jazz hands. Ashamed, I pray to Him. I know He hears me because every time I’m able to overcome the yearning to flutter my fingers. Then He rewards me by giving me the strength to climactically push up a grunting vein-popping new single-rep max.
Recently it occurred to me that I could strategically harness my spiritual weakness for use in battle against the gays. The gays are drawn to music and dancing, or so I am told. Thus, I propose that, with your help, I produce and direct a “musical” (a play that contains musical numbers and dancing) in the heart of their stronghold—San Francisco. Ostensibly, this will be just another colorful theater performance with chiseled men in unitards. But beneath the surface, the musical will deliver a subliminal message in support of traditional marriage: salvation lies within the vagina.
The title of our production will be “Revelation on the Dance Floor.” The stage will be set for apocalyptic battle as we reenact the Book of Revelation with song and dance. Rather than attaching the entire script and illustrated choreography (which is currently being printed in Bible Script font at Kinkos), I will summarize the final scene so that you can get an idea of how the message will be conveyed.
The trumpets will sound as the four horsemen stand, clad solely in chaps, hands-on-hips, in the corners of the stage. Blinding bright light will expose the pagans to the rapture. The naked bodies of the non-believers (representing Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and that pesky Tom Cruise with his army of space druids) will writhe in agony as judgment cometh. [Casting note: the backup dancers will double as the non-believers.] As the Devil prods the heathens, who are now laid out collectively to form a human dance floor, Jesus will be lowered onto the stage. It turns out, however, that Jesus has updated His appearance…I have a feeling that the gays will really appreciate His makeover.
In lieu of flowing white linen robes, JC will be clad in the manliest of outfits: a wrestling singlet. He will be tone, fit, and muscular. I mean, what else is there to do but lift weights while you’re waiting for the rapture? Gone will be His long flaxen hair. Instead, He will sport a strawberry blond faux-hawk (apparently, these are quite popular with the sodomites). Strobe lights will flash as Christ begins to slowly tap His feet on top of the non-believers. The momentum will rise up His leg and His pelvis will begin to gyrate. The Devil’s eyes will grow wide with fear as he senses the power of dancing Jesus. Resurrected Christ will hold up His hand and the light from the disco ball will shine through the holes in His palms and He’ll say something hip like, “In your face, Satan!” The cowering Devil will plunge down through a trapdoor in the stage, leaving a glistening well-built Jesus victorious atop the heap of non-believers (backup dancers now in the fetal position).
An image this raw and vital will undoubtedly have a spellbinding effect on an audience full of the gays. As the spotlight dims on dancing Jesus, the photograph of a massive immaculately-groomed vagina will be projected across the white stage backdrop. The image of our strapping Savior merging into the giant vagina will leave the spectators hypnotically entranced. They will exit the musical inexplicably lusting after female genitalia. And they will find themselves married and producing soldiers for the Lord before they can snap their fingers and say “eternal damnation.”
Anyway, I hope you now have faith in my plan to rehabilitate these lost souls. Please do not question my methods. We must convert them by any means necessary. Deceptive manipulation is perfectly acceptable when used for righteousness. Our values will improve their lives.
Ultimately, we must prevent them from imposing their way of life on everyone else.
Thank you for your time.
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