My son used to be in the Boy Scouts. He is not any more. This is not because he’s gay, although I suppose it’s not impossible. It’s because he’s easily bored, and the people who run the local Boy Scout troop are utter morons.
My son likes to play outside, camp, build things, and get dirty. Somehow, the Boy Scouts couldn’t keep him interested. Boy Scouts don’t spend time tying knots any more. That’s what those kinky fags do. Teach a boy to tie knots, he’ll start tying up his playmates.
They spent a lot of time saluting the flag. I was surprised at that, considering it sounds so much like fag.
But I can see why the Boy Scouts consider homos such a threat. It’s an organization that depends on testosterone driven masculinity, after all. Women have nothing to do with the Scouts, except as den mothers, and then their job is to bring cookies. The Scouts is run by men, as it should be. Grown men who, as Scouts themselves, grew up hanging out exclusively with other boys, and now want to spend their adult lives volunteering all their spare time to wear a uniform with shorts and badges and nurture young boys in large groups away from the prying eyes of women and parents.
All of which will teach the boys the important lessons in manhoodly behavior.
Like hanging out exclusively with other men. Camping together, earning sewing badges together, mending one another’s uniforms together, cooking together, camping together, carving little bolos in the shape of strapping Native American braves together, sleeping in tents together, bathing in streams together.
All of which would clearly be threatened if there was a fag there.
How inappropriate would that be?
To ensure that there would be no confusion, the troop voted to call the organization “The ‘Boys Who Like Girls’ Scouts of America”.
At that point, I announced that I would consider joining myself, insofar as I, too, like Girl Scouts.
I was embarrassed to discover that wasn’t what they meant. Too late, however, to intercept the restraining order from the local Brownie Troop.
In any event, my son will now be taking part in another, perhaps more macho American male pastime. Playing football in the Pop Warner league.
Huddling together. Showering together. Acknowledging one another’s successes with friendly pats on the buttocks.
I’ll be honest, though, at first I wasn’t sure how I should feel about all this; I thought that perhaps I should make him stay in the Scouts, just to teach him about commitment and follow-through.
To get an opinion, I called Doctor Laura. Just to be sure.
ME: Hello, Doctor Laura?
Dr. L: Yes.
ME: Hi Doctor Laura. I’m a first time caller, and –
Dr. L: what’s your question for me?
ME: Well, I’m my kid’s dad –
Dr. L: Am I not making sense here? I thought I was speaking English.
ME: I’m sorry, Doctor Laura –
Dr. L: I don’t do therapy here. I answer ethical and moral questions. Is this a question of morality?
ME: I have a question about my son –
Dr. L: Do you live with his mother?
ME: Well, no –
Dr. L: And whose fault is that?
ME: I’m not sure what –
Dr. L: I’ll tell you whose fault it is. You’re the one who failed. You put your penis inside his mother, and ejaculated, and made a baby, because the orgasm felt good, and now you don’t want to be a man and take responsibility and live with his mother and make a family and a home for him?
ME: But we –
Dr. L: But we wanted “happiness”. We wanted “fulfillment”. What you wanted was to walk out on your responsibility because you don’t understand commitment. Isn’t that right?
ME: I just wanted to know if my son should stay in the Boy Scouts.
Dr. L: Do you want him to grow up to be a fag?
ME: I don’t really care –
Dr. L: Isn’t that just the problem with the world today? Nobody cares, nobody makes a commitment. Nobody wants to have an opinion, nobody wants to judge, nobody wants to throw the first stone, nobody wants to hang heathens, nobody wants to drown witches. Everybody just wants to “live and let live”. If we all just led the kinds of lives we wanted, where would we be then? Where would we be?
So my son left the Boy Scouts, and now will play football.
And on Monday nights, we will watch the game, appropriately without the company of Dennis Miller, a man with big hair, delicate hands and neat custom tailoring, and all will be right with the world.
That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.