Two weeks ago, the neighborhood hosted its annual gay party. Considering myself a friend of family, loving spectacles where people make asses out of themselves, and seeing how I only had to walk three blocks, I decided to head down and bask in the glow of a bunch of twinkees, bears and fairies.

No such luck, it was early yet and the show wouldn’t start until after I had to be at work. At the time, the only attendees were butch lesbians and bus loads of missionaries with their bibles in hand, ready to do battle by spreading the good news for all the sinners. Everywhere I looked, missionaries were confronting gaggles of Gomorrans. Missionaries and lesbians, missionaries and lesbians. I felt like I was at a golf tournament in Utah, but with lots of bible pointing and testrogene.

Anyway, one must support the homos and spend a little cabbage, right? Hmmm... what to buy? Wouldn’t buy any of that rainbow crap. That stuff is just queer. In the end, I just bought the biggest Italian sausage I could find. When in Rome and all that.

So I stood there, massive hot wet foot long Italian sausage in hand, taking in the scene. As far as the eye could see, bickering and fighting and quarreling... oh my.

To my left at about twenty paces, a giant extended cab pickup brimming with mulch with a “I Heart Lauraville” bumper sticker was parked. I fought through the crowd and climbed on top of the pile of mulch.

“Lesbians and Missionaries, lend me your ears!” I bellowed with my shoulders arched and my massive hot wet foot long Italian sausage held high in the air for dramatic effect. Everywhere, lesbians and missionaries stopped arguing with one another and looked towards me.

“Why must we bicker and fight about those things which separate us. We are all human beings in the eyes of God... or some hairy legged earth goddess or whatever the hell you worship, but that’s not what’s important. What matters is that what defines us as human beings is not the differences that push us further away from one another, but those things we share in common that tells us ‘yes, I know how you feel. I share your pain and I understand your passion!”

I paused for a moment to read the crowds reaction. After a couple of coughs and a few grumblings, I heard a boo in a baritone voice. In a second or two, a few more boos... I was about to loose the crowd, so I screamed out, waving my massive hot wet foot long Italian sausage, “LET SHE WHO DOES NOT LOVE NASCAR CAST THE FIRST STONE!!!!”

The crowd went dead silent. Flat topped heads began to begrudgingly bobble in agreement. “Yeah I like NASCAR... NASCAR is bitch-ass” said one of the booers.

“Of course you love NASCAR, because you’re butch lesbians and that’s what butch lesbians do!!!!” I boomed. “And missionaries, who among you does not love the NASCAR?”

Again... silence.

“Uh huh” I said, “And I have another question for you. I see a lot of retarded third world adopted children in the crowd today. If you’re a missionary and have a retarded third world adopted child, could you please raise your hand?

At that moment, every single missionary raised an arm.

“And lesbians. Now it is your turn to raise your hand if you have a retarded third world adopted child.”

All the lesbians in the crowd raised their hands as well.

“Now, everyone, I implore you, if you love your retard third world adopted child, pick him or her up and show them to the world.”

Thousands of retarded children of every shade and creed were held up into the air.

“You love your retarded third world adopted children because you have so much love for retarded third world children that you can’t keep that love to yourself. You need to share that love. Don’t teach your third world adopted retarded children your hate. Teach them your looooooooovvvvvvvvvveeeeee! Put your third world retarded adopted children down and let them pllllllllllaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyy!”

Everyone dropped their children and let them hug, trip and drool all over each other. There wasn’t a dry eye in Mount Vernon.

“Now I may not be a lesbian, and I may not be a missionary; and you may not be gay or christian; but I will tell you one thing, I love Jesus on Christmas. Everyone loves Jesus on Christmas. Well, unless you’re jewish. But even jewish people are willing to admit that Jesus was pretty cool guy on Christmas, unless they hate movies and chinese food or are just an asshole or something, but that’s not the point.

“If you can love Jesus one day of the year, why can’t you like christians every day of the year?!

“And missionaries. How would you like it if you were having a revival meeting and bus loads of homosexuals joined in and tried to make you all gay?! I’m not saying you shouldn’t be evangelists... but I think THAT IS A VERY GOOD QUESTION AND YOU SHOULD STOP AND THINK ABOUT IT FOR A SECOND!!!!”

I raised my massive hot wet foot long Italian sausage as high in the air as I possibly could, tilted my head way back, and forced the entire sausage down my throat without taking a single bite. Lesbians and missionaries screeched in terror, shielding their retarded third world adopted children's’ eyes from the sight before them.

After I was finally able to get the entire sausage down my throat, I burped and said, “The reason why all of you are as horrified as you are is because neither one of you, lesbian or missionary, want ANYTHING to do with twelve inches of hot wet anything going down anybody’s throat! Yet another similarity you should embrace!!

“Trust me, I know how you feel. I typically don’t either. But today is a day of Pride! I may not have any interest in whatsoever in a foot of massive wet hot anything going down my throat, but I sure do like good Italian sausage. And today is not a day for me to focus on that which divides me from my homosexual brothers in humanity. Today is a day for me to embrace that which we share in common. And who doesn’t love good sausage?!!!”

At that moment, the crowd roared with cheers and applause. Lesbians started handing missionaries rainbow flags and Mardi Gras beads. Missionaries offered little bibles and fish decals in return. Everyone hugged and thanked one another. Retarded third world adopted children slapped their forearms together as I stood on that pile of mulch and tried to push back the tears that were welling up in my eyes.

“Now, which one of you dykes owns this truck? I’m late for work. Could I have a ride?