“No union is more profound than marriage, for it embodies the highest ideals of love, fidelity, devotion, sacrifice, and family. In forming a marital union, two people become something greater than once they were. As some of the petitioners in these cases demonstrate, marriage embodies a love that may endure even past death. It would misunderstand these men and women to say they disrespect the idea of marriage. Their plea is that they do respect it, respect it so deeply that they seek to find its fulfillment for themselves. Their hope is not to be condemned to live in loneliness, excluded from one of civilization’s oldest institutions. They ask for equal dignity in the eyes of the law. The Constitution grants them that right. The judgment of the Court of Appeals for the Sixth Circuit is reversed.”
From a work in progress:
The year is 1984. At this point in the story Arnie is 60. A New Yorker who has moved to L.A. He works as an agent. He has come to the city to help Sam as his lover dies. When Jimmy is dead and the body taken away, Arnie goes back to his hotel to sleep. Sam is the great love of his life:
Out on 57th Street Arnie was swept up by the flood of people in holiday mood heading east toward 7th Avenue where they would join the annual Pride March that kicked off later from Central Park South.
For the noon start, participants had been assembling since early morning, with individual contingents forming on side streets off 7th Avenue preparing to take their allotted place in the march down Manhattan to Sheridan Square, site of the Stonewall Inn where it all began—and which was now a shop that sold decorative objects made of wood, both useful and not.
The Daily Caller, home to all things bright and beautiful, just posted this piece about how the gheys have become like totally boring since they got a few civil rights and stuff. They were like so fun with their disco fans and Donna Summer and poppers and shit. But like now? You can’t even drive along Collins Ave with the top down screaming ‘Faggot!’ without some of the boys getting all riled up and pounding on your ass. And those boys are big. And muscly. And sweaty.
Speaking of which do you have any idea what it’s like trying to walk around Dupont Circle when you’re wearing your new Wrangler skinny jeans which are like awesome the way they hug your butt and like make your basket a real ‘case’ (lol) when all the old bald gheys keep scoping you out on account of how you totally look like a bottom? Even though you’re one hundred percent straight. ONE HUNDRED PERCENT. That five o’clock shadow only took a week to grow. I’m more or less a bear. Or otter. Whatever. Jake Gyllenhall is so dreamy. Le sigh.
The Oldz had a high old time in DC last few days.
They raged at the president, they plotted against the president, they scoffed at the president, they raged at the president some more, then they raged at the president again, and in case anyone missed it, they raged at the president.
They hated on the uppity women, also on other kinds of folk who could might be described as being uppity, but most of all they hated on the Gays. They hated on the Gays and hated on the Gays. And then in case anyone thought they were gay they hated on the Gays some more.
Is nothing sacred? Must Big Gay keep shoving gayness down everyone’s throat?
Now it turns out Benedict XXCIVXX (no relation) was forced to retire before it was revealed that the Vatican is not much more than a gay knocking shop for gay prelates to do gay things with gay escorts and gay priests and gay cardinals and other random gays. Semen on the host? Anything’s possible according to some kind of Italian Washington Times. See above linque.