Sunday, February 14, 2016

A Discourse On Buggery

[A bit dated by now, but a classic.]
The Night And The Storm
by Bjorn Nordal

The snowstorm raged all day, and there was an accumulation of more than eight inches. It was dark, and downtown traffic was bumper-to-bumper and standing still. There were few of us left in the newsroom at 9 p.m., and the morning edition of the newspaper was “put to bed.” But none of us relished the idea of joining the masses of stalled motorists.

“There’s a vogue little tavern that’s just opened up around the block,” said Jack, the assistant managing editor. “Why don’t we have a few belts and let this traffic clear out. Besides, the plows won’t be through before eleven.”

We all agreed that we’d rather sit at a warm bar for the next two hours than stare at the taillights of the cab in front of us.

With upturned collars and down-turned faces we stepped from the circulation dock into the billowy white expanse. After fifteen minutes of trudging and cursing, Jack pointed to a newly-installed neon sign. “There it is, that’s it,” he exclaimed, “it’s the Hickory Dickory Dock.”

As we stepped inside we stomped our feet and welcomed the rush of warm air. Carl, the editor-in-chief, led the way as we angled our way to five empty stools at the bar. None of us took note of the ambience or the constituency. It was a hard day and a freezing walk, and we wanted a pick-me-up. “I’ll buy the first round,” the chief said, withdrawing his money clip.

Bill, the courts-and-cops reporter, was first to notice the surroundings. “Look at that poster over there,” he said. “It looks like a naked guy bent over a sofa with his butt stuck up in the air.”

“Look, there’s another one,” Jack said. He pointed to a black-and-white poster depicting an incongruous enlargement of male genitalia.

“Yeah, and look over there,” said Steve, the sports writer. “There’s a picture of two guys kissing.”

I whirled my head in each direction to view the wall displays. As I did my eyes locked on a corner table. “Pictures! What pictures?” I blurted out. “There are two guys over there actually sucking face and groping one another.”

“Oh, hell, Jack,” the boss said, “you’ve brought us into a faggot bar!

“Well, it’s new,” Jack replied sheepishly. “How was I supposed to know? Besides, homosexuals have their own social contract and a right to conduct themselves as they please. Just so long as they don’t have designs on our social contract.”

Bill and I stared at each other in amazement. Had Jack really said that? Carl curled his lip and squinted his eyes in disapproval, the way he did when we turned in lousy copy or missed a deadline. We glanced at the chief and instinctively knew not to enter the conversation. He was going to pontificate, as often he did:

“Listen, Jack, queers have always had their own social strata. But they’re never satisfied with that. They want their perversions accepted in civilized, heterosexual circles. They’re like political zealots – they want to impose their standards and limits on normal people. And doing so makes them feel legitimized. Homosexuals are part of a subhuman underworld that the philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche referred to as ‘the many-too-many.’”

I quietly and approvingly mused at the boss’ use of the term, “many-too-many.”

“But homosexuals have so much to offer,” Jack said. “Many of them are brilliant, liberated people with artistic license and a creative genius. If they bring so much to our culture, shouldn’t we be tolerant of their sexual persuasion?”

Carl was livid. He threw back a swig of his brandy and wagged his forefinger in Jack’s face. “Artistic license! …creativity!” he shouted, “these homosexuals are liberals, race-mixers, anarchists and counter-cultural social insurgents. There are low-profile queers, too, certainly, but in Western civilization they have historically remained in the closet.

“Queers are not true musicians or artists, either. They’re not profound or funny. They’re imitators, actors and distorters with a sick sexual agenda. They promote profligacy, cultural degeneracy and hedonistic decadence. They mock our culture and our norms, and they strive to degrade Western art, music, history and literature to subhuman levels.

“Occasionally a prominent homosexual politician or businessman will ‘come out,’ and you’ll find he’s almost always a liberal. And lesbian feminists are misanthropic -- they attack conventional families and straight lifestyles. They pride themselves in turning little boys into effeminate powder-puffs and little girls into grotesque bull-dykes. Homosexuals seek to mentally and emotionally subvert heterosexual children and bend their minds to accept the ‘gay’ lifestyle. It’s a great conquest for them to ‘turn’ a straight kid.

“More than that, queers seek legislation to give them protection above and beyond the American tenet of equality before the law. They seek privileges to which heterosexuals are not entitled. They campaign for public funding to expand their social contract and diminish the natural relationship between straight couples. They infiltrate education and teach our kids that homosexuality is merely an alternative lifestyle. Queers and lesbians breed their own kind among themselves and openly proselytize for their cause – and they deliberately glamorize and misrepresent AIDS and the queer agenda with in-your-face advertising and politically correct gay pride spin.

“White heterosexuals are made to feel guilty, ashamed and inadequate when confronted with homosexual issues. Homosexuals are made to appear downtrodden, victimized and deprived. To stand up against homosexuality has now become more than merely improper, it has become a hatecrime. And you know as well as I do that if I printed any of this soliloquy in my newspaper tomorrow, our Jewish-liberal bosses would fire me. I’d be blackballed from journalism forever.”

Jack was about to respond when he noticed a silence in the newly-opened Hickory Dickory Dock. Ears and eyes were tuned to Carl’s bombast against homosexuals. Partially-clad, leather-clad and cross-dressed men with orange and blue hair, painted bodies and pierced body parts began gathering around. Some offered disparaging remarks and rebuttals while others simply shouted vulgarities. We became aware of our predicament. We were outnumbered, and we had aggravated a militant homosexual demographic on their home turf.

The bartender, who as it turned out was also the owner, intervened on our behalf – mostly for the sake of his bar and liquor license. He didn’t want a brawl. Carl, Bill, Steve and I were invited to wait outside, pending the arrival of a cab. Jack, the defender of homosexuality, was invited to stay to make apologies for the chief and defuse the situation.

As years passed, Carl passed away and I graduated from beat reporter to become managing editor. I learned much from Carl in the interim, and he is responsible for introducing me to my pantheon of heroes. On my office wall are pictures of H. L. Mencken, the great journalist; Richard Wagner, the great composer; and Friedrich Nietzsche, the great philosopher. Few co-workers recognize the faces.

I recently gave a cub reporter a present. It was Nietzsche’s Thus Spake Zarathustra. She read it eagerly, and after a recent discussion on the evils of miscegenation and homosexuality, she sent me an e-mail: “I see what you mean, boss,” she wrote. “Our culture is sick and inundated with the ‘many-too-many.’”

Once again it’s 9 p.m., snowing and cold outside. Traffic is standing still. A few of us will go around the corner for a pick-me-up. But the Hickory Dickory Dock closed last year, after a shooting and a drug raid. The bar is now the Golden Eagle. There are all-American, blue-collar, hard-hat construction workers at the bar, and the American flag hangs in the window. Carl would approve.

But the queers and their perverted life-style are still out there. I’ve been told their new bar is now three blocks down the strip.



Anonymous Anonymous said...

Tchaikovsky was a queer and, yes, Oscar Wilde. But a few giants aside (not "interior decorators"), yes... Although it's among the "in-the-closet" types, the ones you'd never know it about, that you find the prison rape, Jeffrey Dahmer-type strain... often blue-collar dead-eye sociopath types... better Oscar Wilde than that, the latter type just chills the blood.

12:59 AM  

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