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Volume 68, Issue 118, Tuesday, March 25, 2003


Pro wrestling is God's bag 

Homer Starkey
Opinion Columnist

A few weeks ago I traveled to a Houston suburb to watch a play about the murder of a homosexual man named Matthew Shepard. I thought it was great that a group of community college kids were performing a play that would make every member of the audience think about the abominable aspects of violence born out of fear and ignorance.

On my way into the theater, a guy wearing overalls with no shirt underneath handed me a flyer with the nice hatemonger title "God Hates Fags." He babbled some Bible verse he spent the night memorizing and then casually waddled away in a pair of noisy flip-flops.

My initial reaction was that this guy had found a way to enter those pesky "no shirt, no shoes, no service" establishments and still maintain his white trash sensibility. My second reaction was one of jealousy, since I had never thought of this loophole. Then I stared at the homophobic propaganda and thought, "How does this guy really know God hates homosexuals?"

On my drive home I decided to call God and ask him if this was true. How can I possibly know the Supreme Beingis home number, you ask? I got it from my days working in the telemarketing industry, which is, ironically, as close to hell as one can get in this life.

God answered and greeted me by my first name before I had a chance to say a word. Perhaps he has caller ID, or maybe he was just showing off. He was busy watching professional wrestling, which he assured me is not fake, but was more than happy to answer my question.

God gave me a simple answer: He loves everyone and hates no one. Sure, he thinks Keanu Reeves canit act his way out of an elementary school musical and refers to cats as an "impulse creation that got away from me," but he simply doesnit hate. Heis a real nice fellow; I mean, he kept Maxim magazine coming to my mailbox years after my subscription ran out.

After I said adios to the man upstairs, I began to think about the unemployed truck driver who handed me the Xerox copy detailing his fear of Elton John. Should I hate him? No, because I wonit let him bring me down to his sad world of Miller High Life and Hee Haw reruns.

Besides, I donit know if itis his fault he has so much anger toward things he does not understand. I believe other demons are involved here, such as genetics and environment. For me to shake a fist at someone whose DNA ladder doesnit spiral would just perpetuate more disharmony among Earthis inhabitants.

So, I am letting him keep his hate. Iim not going to pass it on by detailing what was written and misspelled in the flyer he gave me. In some ways, I kind of feel sorry for the guy, because he hasnit got a clue. He probably thought I was gay because my fingernails were clean, I didnit have a mullet and I was wearing womenis underpants. How he sensed that last detail, I will never know.

Starkey, a post-baccalaureate student, can be reached at


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