About Taylor Black
What homosexuals need are not more and more ways to pretend that we matter, but fewer and fewer occasions to acknowledge the world that real people constantly try and drag us into.
What a terrible, confusing couple of days this has been for homosexuals living in America! Between the rope-a-dope situation presented and then played out by North Carolina’s Proposition One campaign and the stamp of approval President Obama subsequently graced us all with, I can understand why so many of you seem so unhinged. Things are more like they are now than they ever were before.
Babies are not innocent, they are guilty. Guilty of shitting on the sheets of the world and then asking us to wipe up their mess for them.
Have you ever looked into the eyes of a baby? If you were to really focus in on this seemingly kind and innocent being, you’d find yourself starting at the head of a dangerous and disgusting monster.
It is with a heavy heart, and of course with all due apologies given to the broader baby community, that I come to you this week in order to speak out on the truly wicked and wily ways of these creatures. And this intervention could not come at a more pressing, relevant time: between news of lil’ miss Anthony’s death and the appearance of a sixteen-pound newborn in Texas, babies have gone way overboard in their dauntless campaign to soil our nation with their stupid and noisy needs.
First of all, I am compelled by the spirit of truth to dispel our long-held characterization of babies as innocent, guileless angels sent down to Earth like little gifts from God. Now if I were God–and I can’t imagine why I am not–I would find it highly repellent that my human servants would look to something as simple and ignorant as a baby as evidence of my most beautiful and genuine work. Adults have until now felt the need to bend over backwards to prove that they just love babies. Since, of course, babies lack the mental capacity to speak in complete sentences, adults do the dirty work of spreading the lies about babies we have become all too familiar with.
Babies are not innocent, they are guilty. Guilty of shitting on the sheets of the world and then asking us to wipe up their mess for them. Babies are not sweet. Stick your finger into the mouth of one of these nasty things and it will use its one, snaggly tooth to bite down upon the hand that rocks and feeds it day after colicky day. They are not even nice. When not crying and carrying on, babies spend their days looking to satiate their horrid needs. A baby only smiles when it passes gas; it only giggles when it is playing in its own pile of filth.
Have you ever seen a piece of fruit that’s been left in a glove compartment all day? No? Well, surely you can imagine what a piece of rotten fruit smells like, glove compartment or no glove compartment.
Smell, they say, is the strongest of our sense-memories. When I think back to the HEY QUEEN!/PUSSYFAGGOT party I attended this Saturday night, I find myself immediately overwhelmed by the condensed and acute scent of rotten fruit.
This is not a cheap joke about the aroma unique to Brooklyn. Nor is it just a comment on the poor relationship the queer identified seem to have with soap, deodorant and, dare I say, a tasteful dash of cologne or perfume.