This post is by regular Slog commenter Mr. Poe. The opinions expressed in this commentary do not necessarily represent the views of Index Newspapers, The Stranger, Ruth’s Chris Steakhouse, Cupcake Royale, or any of their subsidiaries.

Glory be to the Republican Father, to the Governor of the Holy…Florida. As it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be, world without end, Amen. Or something. But seriously, we need to talk. It just feels like there are so many things that haven’t been said that should, like “why are you praying to me” and “do I need to get a restraining order”. No, you do not need a restraining order. I spent two years of my “life” in Florida, and have vowed never to return. Since then I have returned, but that’s not important because it never happened. As for the prayer, you’ll soon notice that I’m not actually praying to you. This is more like a letter. A letter addressed as a prayer, if you will. Truth be told, I couldn’t think of a clever headline so I settled with the first thing that came to mind. Actually I didn’t even try to think of a new one. I figured it best to go with the only thing I thought of since I have a hard time finishing anything I st.

Let’s begin with something obvious. You are ridiculously hot. Your looks are so grand they managed to surpass all of your sexified competition: Anderson Cooper, Scooter Libby, (Mayor) Adam West. Anderson Cooper! How the fuck did you do that? You are officially more intriguing than Anderson Cooper. Congratulations. Don’t get me wrong, I obsessed about Coop as much as the next fatherfucker, but that obsession ended a long time ago (Tuesday). Even though you’re Republican, “straight”, part of a fraternity and kind of a gigantic douchebag, I love you. I love everything about you. I mean, just look at you:

Awww… I’m smiling too. You seem to be fighting yours, but why? Is it because you have a secret? A big, juicy, Grade A secret? Maybe you just need to poop. Whatever the reason, it’s adorable. We have so much in common. I don’t have any humble qualities either. You should know that although I’m retardedly liberal, I see your side and I totally dig it. Matter of fact, you seem to hold solid stances on everything save homosexuality. I can deal with that, and I’ll soon explain why. We’re both well aware that it’s possible for an openly gay Democrat to mingle with a closeted Republican.

Uh oh… was it something I said? I’m sorry. You’re not gay. You’re not bi. You’re not in the closet. You’ve simply been waiting decades for that special woman. Apparently you’ve found her. Forgive me. Please, sit down. I’ve apologized, all is well, let’s not let this petty quarrel stop me from continuing.

That’s better. Now let me level with you. As a liberal, I acknowledge that a majority of the problems we’re trying to fix were caused by us in the first place—”change” we call it, and its change you fear. But dude, change is good. For example, one minute you’re duping some poor old hag into marrying you for an image and the next thing you know, a 22-year-old twink is feeding you grapes and tossing your salad. Only I would never toss your salad. Get a good dose of that from the poor old hag before we run to the next base. For a cheap laugh, fart in her face. She’ll love it. Don’t you think?

Believe it or not, I’m fine with your position on gay marriage. My people of the left dream of a life without guns, billion dollar corporations, cars, plastic bags, church, meat, responsibility, accountability, the ability to smoke anywhere outside Kansas—why not ban marriage all together? I know you feel pressure to express how much you think marriage actually matters, but it doesn’t really work for you. Your first marriage was a practical joke, you’ve never had kids and…wait, what have you been doing for the last 23 years? Pussy, they hope. Mmm…pussy. I will say one thing, even though you’re firm on preventing gays from adopting, you do go out of your way to show that you care about kids, which is another thing we have in common. I often pretend like I do too.

Yeah, gays are promiscuous. Shit, just the other day I tripped on a rock and cheated on my boyfriend twenty times in the process. We know we’re going to hell, but the tickets are free and it’s really the only venue hosting anything worth a damn. If you think a copy of Animal House or Fraternity Vacation will be waiting for you in heaven…think again. Do you really want streets paved of gold? How entertaining would it be to see a lion lay down with a lamb? What’s the point of sustaining existence if you only exist to worship your creator? Why isn’t His Kingdom ready? What’s taking Him so goddamn long? I’ll tell you what’s taking Him so long. He’s waiting for us. You. Me. He’s waiting for us to join forces. Partners in crime. Warriors of virtue. Can’t you see how glorious this could be?

I want to explore the wilderness with you. We can bait bears together! Or we could sit in a tree for six hours, in the rain, waiting to murder some lonely animal aimlessly searching for shelter. “Don’t,” you’ll say. “That’s a mother.”
“Not anymore she ain’t!”
Bang! —BANGBANGBANGBANGBANG…bang!
As the cloud of our beloved second amendment settles and we prepare to dedicate our kill to the Lord, it is discovered that we have not one, but two gifts to anoint. “Oh no, Mr. Poe,” you’d gasp. “You shot her fawn.”
“Three point!” I’ll yell. “Fuckin’ bitches!”
When we’re finished with our Xum Chodesh—a custom consecrated by defecation—we’ll trot off with glee, leaving our epic manliness behind for all the critters to eat. We might even chop some wood for good measure. Like a scene that should be in a movie, Gilbert O’Sullivan is following, singing Ooh-wakka-doo-wakka-day.

Now Imagine the physical bond we could share. I’d let you choke me with your hands and your ham, maybe even your feet. You could even tie me up. I’d prefer it if we made out longer, but you’ll be in a rush. Like most Republicans, you’d probably blow your unprotected load inside me and then laugh about it to let me know. It’ll be so gosh darn cute I’ll quickly arrive, and then we’ll joke about HIV with some textbook hi-fives. As restroom wall talk ensues, things will finally get personal. I’ll be fresh ask you how many chicks you date raped in college. You’ll say, “Oh fuck, I don’t remember.” After an awkward silence, you’ll ask me what my Scrabble-cube N.O.W. tattoo means. I’ll lighten the mood and say “National Organization for Women,” quickly following with “Just kidding. No Opportunity for Women!” We’ll laugh until someone enters the bathroom, promptly forcing our giggles into silent smirks while we wait for their exit. You may even ask me to read you a page or two from my diary. I’ll tell you I don’t have one. I’m not that gay. Oh Clarissa, it would be so beautiful.

Aaaaaaanyway, let us part on a serious note. I don’t care if you’re straight, gay, or closeted. That’s your choice, and ‘go you’ for making it. But if you care about marriage as much as you say you do, please don’t follow through with this blatantly rushed, selfish and dumb engagement to some stupid bitch you barely know for a presidential election you have a whopping 20.3% chance of winning. Idiot.

P.S.
If I’m wrong about Ms. Comb or whatever, at least you bagged yourself a classy lady.

…uh, I think.