by James Killough
It would appear that we have called it right and that there is something not quite straight about the Marcus “Marcia” Bachmann story. The ex-gay therapist, who would appear to be ex-gay himself, is being hounded all over the media, from Jon Stewart’s Daily Show to the Daily Beast, for his—how do we put this discreetly?—underperformance of the American performance of masculinity. To put it indiscreetly, Marcia behaves like a screaming queen.
However much you want to scrub “barbarian” Gheys* from the face of the planet, or at least from this Godly country, and pack us back to England and France, we still own you, Marcia Bachmann; you are clearly one of us and always will be. Your ex-gay clinics are the sort of movement that is indirectly responsible for the viral bullying gay children are suffering in school, the beatings to death of your own kind, which is the preferred way to murder us. Never mind. You are forgiven. We understand how difficult and frightening it is to be a social pariah, to be cast down to the lowest rung of the playground jungle gym no matter what level of society you are born into just because you have a penis and are born to crave it as well.
So, even if your ways and words are more than just a smidge evil and offensive, we commiserate with how a girl can lose her way by overcompensating. The cliché is to mangle the Shakespeare quotation from Hamlet, “The lady doth protest to much, methinks,” and say that the proof of your true nature is in your screeching, in the hating. But, like most Gheys, I doth have much experience with Nelly queens such as thyself, Marcia, and I know the screeching and hating to be an old-fashioned affliction, something for which they locked women away routinely in the 19th century: Hysteria.
The PFC Pledge
Before we go any further in trying to transition Marcia into the fold and make her see the error of her ex-gay ways and discard that presidential-hopeful beard, Michele, let me state this: PFC will award $10,000.00 (ten thousand US dollars and zero cents) to any man who has solid, verifiable proof that he has had sex with Marcus Bachmann. We’ll consider another arrangement if you were just propositioned.
Now, Marcia, for your ex-ex-gay makeover:
1. There is such a thing as being too swish. And you are too swish. As you might know from scouring the profiles on cruising sites like Manhunt.net and Adam4Adam.com, there is a premium placed on guys who are “masc,” or masculine. Especially as an older dude, as a daddy presumptive, you are going to need a certain swagger to get laid. We suggest binding your wrists in splints for a couple of months to keep them from flapping. Also lower your voice, get speech therapy for that sibilant S—you are really stereotyping us, Marcia, and that can cause resentment in the ranks—and start taking Xanax so you don’t mince about quite so excitably. You may still drink vodka because,
2. We need to talk about that waistline. While there are a fair number of chubby chasers out there, fat is a handicap. Why hobble yourself when you are just beginning to enjoy your ex-ex-gay freedom? We’re not asking you to go for the six-pack abs and the shredded steroid look—PFC has already taken a stance on that by declaring the chemical muscle look démodé—but you should definitely consider lap-band surgery. Once you’ve lost the flab, you might have excess flesh that will need to be removed. We have contacts in Thailand who can help you with that. The best thing about recovering there is… well, let’s just say Bangkok really lives up to its name, especially if you like them Asian, smooth and called Mongkut. Or even if you like them Asian, smooth, and formerly called Mongkut, but now known as Tiger Lily. Conversely,
3. You can tap into your inner barbarian. Invasive surgery of any kind is painful, and might land you with a Limbaugh-esque Vicodin addiction. The alternative is you can grow a beard and invest in a custom-made leather wardrobe. We recommend an old stalwart bespoke tailor on Christopher Street in New York, The Leather Man, which has been outfitting the barbarous BDSM community for decades. The best training camp for your new leather bear look has unfortunately just taken place, but luckily it’s an annual event: Bear Week Provincetown. Depending on how well you integrate, there’s always the International Mr. Leather competition, also held annually in Chicago.
Those are the outward makeover tips we have for now, Marcia, just to get you started on the opposite of a straight-and-narrow path, the gay-and-wide super highway. As you well known from ex-gay therapy, the inner transformation is the most painful, and can have you opening and slamming shut the closet door more frequently than a three-year-old discovering doorknobs. While you might believe right now that God hates fags, the truth is he can’t hate us because he doesn’t exist. But that’s such a minor detail. There are lots of Gheys who believe in a supernatural, magical puppet master, just as they believe in the zodiac, numerology and aromatherapy. No one is going to object if you pack your beliefs with you on the Fabulous Rainbow Journey on which you should now embark. Just be aware that there are those of us out there who think that this image of my friend Matt at Barnes and Noble just about sums it up:
By the way, Matt is what we older Gheys call a “pup.” You’ll find that quite a few worthy younger men are attracted to Old Dawgs like you and me, provided you can butch up, slim down and get a little more daddy with it.
You’ll learn all about pups, otters, wolves, bears, polar bears in Provincetown. They even have a name for a bear’s fag hag, like your “wife” Michele: Goldilocks.
A big hug and lots of luck to you from all of us with your new, happier, realer life.
*For those new to the PFC blog, we use “Ghey” as the noun, “gay” as the adjective. Example: “Marcia Bachmann knows how to sashay like a true Ghey, but she really needs to get in touch with her gay soul.”