(Snark. Duh.)
We've been discovered -- outed, you might say -- by Sen. James Inhofe:
[In the military, you] have women, men, then you have a third group to deal with, and they’re not equipped to do that.
Rats! Our great secret is out! After countless generations of carefully masquerading in society, disguising our identities by assuming roles as actors, interior decorators, softball players and fundamentalist Baptist ministers, social prophet James Mountain Inhofe has outed all of the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, intersex community (and anyone not covered by those words) as not men, not women, but a third group.
No, we're not women or men; sorry our expertly disguised genitalia fooled you, but it's true.
We're not like you. We're ... a third kind.
::cue scary music::
Oops, wrong CD.
::cue Cher::
There we go.
Our history in America -- in hetero civilization, really -- is long and glorious, filled with agents infiltrating every corner of society except the hair bands of the 1980s. (That was entirely the "accomplishment" of you straight people; don't even try to pin it on us.)
Rather than go into a detailed history of everything we've done for you, here are a few highlights of our history on Earth, in no particular order:
Back in the 1920s, we operated with a craftily hidden agenda: Just give us a dance hall once or twice a month and let us do our thing (don't ask and we won't tell). We won't bother you with our relationships, our love of mimosas, our secret handshake -- we actually do have human hands, which is part of what led to the confusion.
Now, granted, this was a step down from the relative freedom we enjoyed among the less-suspicious Europeans, who as much as allowed us to marry, albeit in what seem to most heterosexual researchers to be isolated incidents. But in our defense, we had at that point secured running water, streets free of human waste and flapper dresses that allowed even the butchest of lesbian to fit in without having to really dress up.
And when it comes to the all-third Greek elite force squads, relegating ourselves to those anonymous dance halls was, even with modern amenities, definitely a step and a half down. (Ever trip on a stair and think the thing was too high or too low? Yeah. Half step -- special queer step. It's like a booby trap so we know there's a breeder in our midst.)
As societies grew, it became increasingly hard for us to fit in with you lot, with your sports and your quaint but insistent dedication to heterosocial order, so we adapted our appearance accordingly.
To help our queermen fit in, we invented wrist guards for that new fad game, tennis, and introduced gloves and the rules (no thanks to a certain traitor) for boxing -- who wants to break a nail right before tea? All that unsightly bleeding and bruising is bad enough, honey.
For our queerwomen, it was rough going for a while before we lucked out in a major way with Rosie the Riveter (Joan of Arc had blown our last best chance for more practical attire centuries before). What can I say? We had a few agents planted in the War Department, and they were able to convince the right people that America could handle a picture of a woman without ridiculous lipstick. Couldn't get any help on those ridiculously arched eyebrows, though.
Oh, and you're welcome for the sports bra.
We've served in every major military episode. (Who do you think came up with the idea of decorating a uniform with colorful and sparkly things?) We've delivered your babies, punished your criminals and distracted you in theaters and books from the mundanity of society for countless thousands of hours. We've lived among you now for millennia, from sea to fabulously shining sea.
That's quite the feat considering we can't quite breed on our own. Oh, sure, we can take other people's children -- the Romans, God bless their dead hearts, used to leave infants out on the streets. But when it comes to making a full-blooded queer, well, that takes a homo and a dyke with some pretty strong constitution. (Have you ever looked down there? We invented vagina dentata just so nobody would blame our queermen for being a little gun shy, so to speak!)
We were almost found out in the 1950s, courtesy of Senator Joe McCarthy. He was originally hot on the trail of the entirely real homosexual menace -- which you might remember from those film strips our actors made for you, complete with critically inaccurate portrayals of our people and culture. Always one step ahead, darlings. We're insidious! ::jazz hands::
But Agent Delta, our most veteran handyqueer in the government, had a nice long talk with Joey about how the real menace was those godless Reds, who cooked by the fire of burning Americans flags.
But now, courtesy of the Senate -- where we have seven agents, I might add -- it's all over.
We tried to convince little Jimmy Inhofe that terrorism and the global warming myth were still bigger threats, but we had already blown our wad on that amazingly determined Rick Santorum. And that, combined with Bush's failed drive to prevent us from marrying each other, sealed the deal.
(By the way, that marriage amendment -- a misguided effort if I ever saw one; forcing us to marry all hetero-like means you give us your women to make our gay babies -- a sure way to ensure you become like us.)
Of course, it isn't all bad. We still have our secret agents, who have managed to addle so many minds that most Americans now support allowing our third kind into your military ranks openly, instead of with a wink, a nod and a tastefully decorated foot locker.
And we still control Hollywood, where our agents have been putting out queer-friendly movies for a while now. They play the butchest soldiers you ever saw, the strong women who've inspire generations of lesbians and the gender-bending folks Brits laugh at -- David Bowie hasn't had to pay for a drink or a shag in queer culture since 1973.
And we control real estate -- you didn't think a normal person could have that much energy, did you? Honey, there's a reason we eat six meals a day. (That's also part of why we go to the gym so much.)
And ... oh, let's see. We're close to controlling the Catholic church (you can't find stained-glass windows like those anymore, and we want them). We've been running your community colleges now for decades. And if you've ever bought silk, well, that's almost pure profit for our agenda.
(Homo Depot isn't news anymore, right?)
So what now? That all depends on how credible your people think Jim Inhofe is. On the one hand, he exposed the lesbianism in his state's schools (those responsible for the obviousness of the rampantness were sacked -- replaced by lesbians for whom nuance is not twin sisters cooing over their hours-old nephew), but on the other hand, one of our younger agentsgot a little prideful and ended up on "Ellen." So it's kind of uncertain just now.
We'll continue to have our propaganda wing, the HRC, do absolutely nothing nationwide just so the real work is easier to advance without your public suspecting anything. HRC'll issue the occasional press release or action e-mail, and then nothing will happen as a result. It's working shockingly well -- just look at the fight in California over gay marriage. The teachers union did more there than the HRC even planned.
We'll continue to breed with your people, building up our agent network so we even get the occasional person who wants to go to places like Wyoming, Nebraska and ::shudder:: Canada. (Poutine is foul and waaay too fattening, and hockey? Have you seen what they do to each other? FOR FUN?)
And then one day, your people will wake up and we'll have taken over your society. All of it. Our agenda will have become yours, our heroes will be in all of your textbooks and there won't be a strong-wristed man among you. (Keep your baseball cards; once the sport dies, those little pieces of paper will be worth millions.)
And -- oh, I'm sorry, but I simply must go now. Work calls, and if I'm going to do my queeny best to turn my newspaper's readers into a bunch of fairy-loving Mexicans, I've simply got to ... well, you'll see. (I'd tell you all about it, but then I'd have to sprinkle you with fairy dust, and I keep burning through my monthly ration.)
Happy recruiting, all you queer agents! Remember: 10 percent is not enough!