The Nashville Statement and the Progressive Response

Recently, the Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood released something called “The Nashville Statement“. I suspect normal folks are blissfully unaware of this development. Those of us with any kind of connection to progressive theological circles? We aren’t so lucky. That’s folks in those progressive theological circles have lost their fucking minds about the Nashville Statement.

Is your curiosity piqued yet? Are champing at the bit to learn just what could be so awful that it would make thoughtful, tolerant, forward-looking clergy people work themselves into an absolute lather? Yeah, I didn’t think so. It’s not like this a rare occurrence; progressive folks have a well-documented history of losing their shit over things that, in the bigger picture, aren’t really worth… well, losing your shit over.

The Nashville Statement

This time, however, it’s well justified because the Nashville Statement is more heinous fuckery from the people who brought you complementarianism (a fancy word for “Keep ’em barefoot and pregnant”); sounded the (false) alarm that same-sex marriage would bring society crashing down around us; and continue to promote the scientifically debunked practice of conversion therapy. Using a term as innocuous as “Statement” to describe this moral violation is too goddamned restrained. I’m thinking “Shitstain” is a better descriptor.

Before we go any further, I should probably warn you that, from here on out, things go downhill. I’m not going to get into the steaming pile of shit that is the Nashville Statement. Let’s just say it’s yet another swipe at the marginalized among us taken by the dominant culture; i.e., basically the opposite of everything Jesus said/taught during his time on Earth.

Of course, none of this is surprising when you consider that signers of the statement include James Dobson (Focus on the Family), Tony Perkins (Family Research Council) and John Piper (Desiring God website), all men who have built reputations and/or empires shitting on people who are LGBT+. Fuck those guys and everyone else who signed this awful document. Shit like this makes me long for the day when the Millenials finally take over.

The Progressive Response

Earlier, when I said people in progressive theological circles have lost their fucking minds about the Nashville Statement, I wasn’t kidding. Of course, when these folks lose their minds, it’s not like when you or I do. When we lose our shit, we cuss and throw stuff, call the target of our ire “assholes” or worse, and generally raise hell until our spleen is fully vented. But, when a progressive theologian loses it, they write a response to whatever is vexing them so and post it on line. And, it’s almost always thoughtful, well-written, and very, very composed. In other words, boring…as…fuck.

Just once, I’d love to see one of these progressive Christian thought leaders release a statement in response to some conservative evangelical bullshit that just burns it to the fucking ground. One that calls these motherfuckers out for the greedy, hateful bastards they are, ridicules their infantile interpretation of the Bible for the simplistic garbage that it truly is, and informs anyone that agrees with the views presented that should give up the name “Christian” because there is nothing of Christ in crap like the Nashville Statement. Instead, we get the following from the House for All Sinners & Saints’ Denver Statement: “WE DENY that God is a boy and has actual arms.” Really, Nadia? With your creative cursing ability, that’s the best you could come up with?

It Gets worse

At least one person speaking out against the Nashville Shitstain seems to be of the opinion that it’s a good thing, because some of the people in churches that affirm it will see the hate they are embracing and have a change of heart. Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt. Seriously though, Brian McLaren says in his response that this document “makes explicit what has been hidden”. Seriously? These fuckers have been very open and upfront about their feelings for LGBT folks for a long, long time. If anyone wasn’t aware of their beliefs on this matter, it’s because they didn’t want to be aware.

And, if the namby-pamby replies from progressive Christian leaders aren’t bad enough, there’s also an on-line petition making the rounds. Great! They fix everything and totally not a way for companies to get your email so they can spam the shit out of you with more worthless slacktivist petitions. How stupid do they think we are?

In Conclusion

I’m sure some lovely progressive people reading this and are thinking to themselves that I’m being overly harsh in my assessment of the Nashville Statement and the responses to it; that I should be tolerant and loving; in other words, “nice”. If that’s you, try to get your around head this fact: These assholes have attacked my son’s humanity and intrinsic value with their “manifesto of Christian conviction a/b our creation as male and female.” I ain’t being nice about that.

You May Be Missing the Point of the Sheetcaking Bit
It’s almost too pretty to tear into. Almost.

To say that the last 9 days have been a little crazy is an understatement on the order of calling the BP oil spill an “oopsie”. I’m not going into all that’s happened, we’re all aware. If you don’t know, you must be living under a rock. Get the fuck out and google some shit. I’ll even wait.

Up to speed? Okay, let’s move on. A few days ago, Tina Fey returned to Weekend Update for a bit that was pure genius. But, don’t take my word for it, judge for yourself:

I love Tina Fey; no one does the snarkyfunnynerdycool thing better. Unfortunately, some folks didn’t find Fey’s sheetcaking sketch funny. While most people liked it, some of the more activist-oriented voices on the internet were not amused. Amy Zimmerman of the Daily Beast said that “Tina Fey’s ‘Eat Cake’ Strategy After Charlottesville Is Bad Advice“, while another writer felt the segment was the “epitome of white privilege”. Megan Garber, writing for The Atlantic, used a witty variation of “Let them eat cake” (She wasn’t alone. That line has taken a beating since Thursday). There are others, but they all suffer from the same fatal flaw: they completely miss the point.

Each of these articles come at the bit from the same angle, namely that Fey is literally encouraging people to stay home and eat cake instead of standing up against the racist shitheels that are under the impression that the rest of country is on board with the disgusting gibberish that falls out of their mouths like so many turds from a diseased asshole. Even some of the pieces I’ve seen that are taking up for Fey don’t really get it. This article from the Village Voice’s Lara Zarum defends Fey by saying  she’s just a comedian and not your elected representative. Zarum sees the bit as speaking to the despair and exhaustion so many of us are feeling just 212 days into the 1461 days of this deranged Oompa Loompa’s presidency. And, yes, it does that. But, it does so much more.

It is worth noting here that the majority of the criticism I’ve seen leveled at Fey for her sheetcaking “advice” has come from liberal white women. It’s worth noting because liberal white women were the real target of Fey’s satire. For example:

  • She spouts inane platitudes like “Love is love” while shoving cake into her mouth at furious pace. God knows, we progressives love our inane platitudes. And, while studies show no correlation between gender and emotional eating, who does society normally associate with this kind of behavior?
  • At one point, after Fey mentions that there are more rallies planned around the country, Colin Jost tells her, “Well, you know, they’ve already cancelled some of these new rallies.” To which Fey replies, with tongue firmly in cheek, “You see, it’s working already.” Just like those online petitions that are so popular these days. Okay, so maybe women aren’t the only ones who love them, but there’s more than enough burn to go around.
  • Fey’s comment that “Sheet-caking is a grassroots movement, Colin. Most of the women I know have been doing it once a week since the election” isn’t meant to be taken literally. It’s nod toward the fact that marginalized groups in this country have been living on tenterhooks since Tangerine Hitler won the presidency. And, it’s a barb flung at the white people who tend to stay home when shit gets real.
  • Perhaps the best part of the entire bit is the cake itself: it is a metaphor on multiple levels. She tells Jost to scream his frustration with racism into a cake decorated with an American flag. And, as Tom Carson says in this piece for Playboy, “(W)hite liberals should have winced at the literal demonstration of how we can eat our cake and have it too.” Hmm, maybe that’s why some folks on the internet didn’t like it. It hurts when people step on your toes. It hurts even more when your heroes do it.

This isn’t the first time liberals have gotten their panties in a wad over something Fey has written. She has caught flak for “insensitive” portrayals of race on both “30 Rock” and “Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt” (links in Atlantic article referenced earlier). It seems to me that both of those incidents were also satirizing race and, while they may have pushed the boundaries a bit, that should be obvious to anyone with a brain and sense of humor what they were trying to do. But, that brains and a sense of humor seems to be in short supply these days.

I believe Fey’s problem is that she is smarter than her audience. Honestly, if she made a mistake on the SNL sketch (or the other ones, for that matter), it wasn’t falling back on her white privilege, it was overestimating the American ability to understand satire.

New News

Hey there. If you’re new here, welcome. If you’re not new, you’ve probably noticed some changes. It’s okay, you’re in the right place. But, in keeping with the new direction of things around here, I decided a new look was in order. And, there are some new features. See those two buttons marked “Writing” and “Comedy”? They’ll take to you pages filled with all sorts of fun stuff.  I’ll be updating periodically and will post notice of new stuff here. If you’d like to see me in person, I’m usually at The Idiot Box’s Thursday Open Mic, so stop by and have a laugh on (or at) me.

Trump Reinstates Ban on Transgender People in the Military

Yesterday, President Trump (I throw up in my mouth a little every time I say that) hit us with another tweetstorm to announce a new “policy”. In this latest one, he…, shit, just read it for yourself:




















Are you fucking kidding me?

Before I go any further, I should probably tell you that this post isn’t going to be a think piece, filled with facts and studies and well-reasoned argument. I’m not at a point where I could do that and I’m not sure it would matter if I was because the people who believe the shit that falls out of this unhinged Oompa Loompa’s face hole don’t seem to be smart enough to comprehend facts and studies and well-reasoned argument, much less be swayed by them. No, this is going to be an angry rant about yet another bit of heinous fuckery perpetrated by the walking, talking id masquerading as a fully developed human being that currently inhabits 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

I should also warn you that everything in this post may not be all that politically correct or exhibit good allyship. I’m too god-damned angry for to worry about that shit and, frankly, I don’t really give a fuck. Most of the people who police that shit are straight, white, cis folks who wouldn’t know an actual trans woman if she walked up and bit them on the ass. Fuck that noise. For the record, I am not an ally, I’m a dad and that’s a whole different ball of wax. Allies can pick and choose when and where they want to get involved, fathers don’t have that luxury; we’re in it for the long haul. And, if you’re not, then you ain’t a dad, you’re sperm donor. And, now that the preliminaries are out of the way, let’s get started.

There’s not a lot that could drag me back into blogging about this semi-sentient hairball, but saying that my kid isn’t fit to get blood and gore and guts and veins in his teeth, to eat dead, burnt bodies because he’s trans will definitely do it. Trump is a fucking draft dodger who got 5, five, goddamned deferments to avoid service in Vietnam and now he has the nerve to imply that a trans person who genuinely wants to serve their country isn’t fit and might somehow hold us back from “decisive and overwhelmingly victory”? If anything is holding us back from victory, it’s a goddamned commander-in-chief who isn’t fit to clean the fucking latrines of real soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines.

And, don’t even start with the whole cost thing because that shit won’t fly. A study by the Rand Corporation (I know I said no studies, but this one’s important) found that the cost of extending transition–related health care coverage to the estimated 2,450 transgender personnel currently serving would be somewhere between $2.4 and $8.4 million. Meanwhile, a breakdown of the defense budget found at Business Insider shows that the Defense Department spends a little over $64 million on Viagra and Cialis. So, let me see if I understand this, spending 8.4 million to help trans folks who want to serve will break the bank, but spending 8 times more than that so old men can get boners won’t? I call bullshit.

Fuck that tangerine nutsack. And fuck anyone who agrees with him, too. You motherfuckers make me sick.


New News

Hey there. If you’re new here, welcome. If you’re not new, you’ve probably noticed some changes. It’s okay, you’re in the right place. But, in keeping with the new direction of things around here, I decided a new look was in order. And, there are some new features. See those two buttons marked “Writing” and “Comedy”? They’ll take to you pages filled with all sorts of fun stuff.  I’ll be updating periodically and will post notice of new stuff here. If you’d like to see me in person, I’m usually at The Idiot Box’s Thursday Open Mic, so stop by and have a laugh on (or at) me.

Burnished Bronze and Sour Cream White

Peter felt more out of place than he ever had in his entire life. Imagine him, the whiter-than-sour cream Peter Nolan in a place like Pharoah’s, a combination restaurant/coffee house/hookah bar. The décor, the smells, the smoky haze that hung in the air, it all felt so exotic.

That feeling was heightened when, as he made his way through the maze of tables, the music began to play. Not having much experience with middle eastern cultures, he thought it might be Arabic. That thought was confirmed when a woman the color of burnished bronze stepped from behind a beaded curtain. Dressed in what he supposed was an Egyptian belly dancer’s costume, she began to dance around the room, moving in ways he didn’t know humans could move. He was specifically drawn to her midriff. It was bare, with a light golden chain draped around it, and it rippled and undulated in a most pleasing manner. He was so fixated on her stomach that he forgot to find a seat and just stood there, watching as that bronzed belly rolled and waved, hypnotizing him. Just then, she noticed him and began to dance his way. Even that didn’t break Peter’s trance and he was so shy that he normally avoided attention from women like the plague. In fact, he was so transfixed, he didn’t even notice as she began to dance around him. All he could see was that stomach and the chain as it oscillated and flowed. The spell was broken as she lightly grazed her fingertips across his bare forearm and sent an electric shock up his arm and straight into his brain. He realized then that everyone was looking at him. And most of them were laughing. He sheepishly stepped away and found a table in the corner.

As he sat, sipping a coffee, he noticed her heading his way, her most recent performance over. He began to feel butterflies in his stomach. What if she sat down and wanted to talk? He wasn’t good with the talking. Especially with girls. His mother had always told him that girls were sinful creatures who only wanted one thing, his money, and they’d do anything to get it. He took a sip of coffee. She was getting closer. What would he say? He needed to know what to say so he didn’t sound stupid. He’d never find out if his mother was right if he said something stupid. And, oh god, did he want to find out if his mother was right. And, he wanted to find out with this girl. She smiled as approached his table. The butterflies in his stomach turned into California condors and he thought he was going to lose it. “Keep it together, Peter”, he said to himself. If you throw up in front of this woman, you’ll never find out what that belly can do and you’ll be a virgin the rest of your life. He calmed down enough that the moment passed and thought to himself, Okay, crisis averted. Now, what am I going to say? He realized he better come up with something quick because she was only 3 tables away. Shit, what do I say? Two tables… and closing. God damn it, he panicked. Then, it popped into his head: the perfect opening line. Just as she got to his table and he opened his mouth to deliver it, she passed right on by as he weren’t there. Damn it, he thought. Another night, no nookie.

First Trip

“You okay?” the tech asked as he leaned in over me, checking the IV. I nodded, too nervous to speak. “Okay, then,” he said as he closed the door on the isolation tank. I heard the latch on the tank’s door snick closed and then a slight click as the intercom came on. “Can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear”, I replied.

“All right,” he said. “Get ready for the joy juice.” I couldn’t hear anything, but I knew he’d pushed the button that injected a rather large dose of Ketamine into my IV. “Have nice trip.”

In the days since signing up to be a test subject for what I thought would be everyday, run of the mill psychiatric research, I had spent a lot of time in working in sensory deprivation. Hell, it was getting so that was more comfortable in the tank than I was in my own bed. I can still remember when we’d found out that astral projection wasn’t just esoteric bat shit craziness, but something actually worked; the entire lab was silent for a second, then erupted in a full-blown nerdgasm when everyone realized what we’d done. Since then, I’d traveled outside my body more times that I could count and it was the single most exhilarating experience I’d ever had.

It wasn’t long after that the government guys showed up. We’re with DARPA, they told Dr. Zemanski and we’re interested in what you’re doing here. We think it may have applications in government service and we want to give you tons and tons of cash to further your research. Okay, so they didn’t say quite that way, but that’s what happened. The money rolled in, along with all kind of new toys and a bunch of new people with new ideas; one of which we were testing today. Some guy, supposedly a bigwig neuroscientist who knew all about this stuff, heard about a claim that hallucinogenic drugs heightened the out of body experience. He pulled out the old MK Ultra data, some of the most comprehensive research on the subject, and did some math or something and the next thing I know, I’m being asked to take another trip. If he was right, the combination of the tank and the drug should take things to a whole other level. And, I was about to find out just where that level might be.

I repeated the phrase and performed the hand movement that had been planted in my subconscious to automatically induce a hypnotic state. As I did, I felt the drugs begin to kick in. The Ketamine would induce sleep paralysis (for my protection) and, more importantly, open my mind and let me access the portion of my brain that allowed to me travel outside my body. And this time, not just travel, but actually do things. Real, physical things.

The “K” began to take hold and I felt the vibrations that signaled the beginning of the process of separating my consciousness from my body. Then came the high-pitched whine that let me know I was ready. I went to take the first step away and all of sudden I flew up and out of the tank, hovering for a moment on the ceiling. Holy shit, that was strong! In all my trips, I had never felt anything like that.

After a minute to get my shit together, I stretched out and aimed for the door. This first trip wasn’t going to be a long one, just get out and about and see if I could actually make things happen. Opening the door would be the big test. Of course, I had no need to open the door; when you’re projecting, walls and doors are no barrier at all. But, if I could open it in front of a group of observers still in the physical realm…, well, that would be a major step in the program. It would validate all the time, effort and funding that gone into it and Dr. Z would be very happy. And, when Dr. Z was happy, everyone was happy.

Getting to the door was nothing, By this stage of the game, I was an expert at moving around a room while traveling etherically. Once I got there, though, that’s when things got serious. With the enhanced hypnogogic state induced by the ketamine, tapping the part of my brain that made my consciousness concrete was much easier than I expected. I looked down at where my hand should be and sure enough, it began to manifest. I was only supposed to do my hand and open the door, but it felt so good that I kept going. Before I knew it, a entire body was standing there at the door, in front of the assembled scientists. But, it wasn’t my body. Well, it was and it wasn’t. It looked familiar, but it didn’t appear…, well, substantial. It was sort of like a solid shadow. For all of that, it looked a whole lot better than my physical body did. Muscular but not like a body builder, it was lean and athletic; like it could outrun that trouble that came its way, but fight like hell if it couldn’t. I looked down at the hand and the fingers, my fingers I realized, and smiled. This was beyond cool.

After spending a few moments appreciating this new and improved me, I reached out for the door knob, expecting my hand to pass right thru like it had every other time I had tried to touch something while projecting. But, it didn’t. It wrapped around the knob. I stood there for a second, not believing what I was feeling. My god, I was in the astral plane and touching something in the physical! No one had ever done this before! My mind relayed the command to turn the knob and the hand in front of me obeyed. The door opened effortlessly. I turned to look at Dr. Z and his colleagues. Most of the other scientists were stunned, a couple of mouths even hung open. No one thought we’d actually be able to pull this off. No one except Potter, the government guy whose idea this was. He’d been certain from the start and now wore an incredibly satisfied smile. He looked at the technician and said, “That’s enough for now. Bring her back.”

No, I thought (speaking hadn’t been worked out yet), I want to stay. But, the tech pushed in the drug that would counteract the “K” and bring me back down. I felt it flow in and, in seconds, my strong, beautiful shadow body began to fade. As the effects increased, I felt my consciousness being pulled back into the tank and my physical body and, then, in a rush, I was back.

They opened the tank and helped me out. It took me a minute to steady myself and, when I did, I turned and saw Dr. Zemanski standing there, Potter right beside with that smug smile still plastered across his face. “Well, Samantha,” Dr. Z asked, “how was it?”
I was shaking from the exhilaration I felt. I reached out and grabbed his arm and said, “More! Send me back. I’ve got to have more!” And, then, I promptly passed out.

Rain On Car Windows

When I posted this story back during the summer, I was pretty happy with it.
Then, I let a couple of my English professors have a go at it, which was a slightly
humbling experience.  It was, I believe, worth the pain. Take a look at this
new, improved version and see what you think.


“What time is it?” she asked.

“We’ve got a while yet,” he said. “You sure you wanna do this? You don’t have to. We can find another way.”

“No!” she snapped. Then, softer, “Sorry. We’ve been over this and over this. There is no other way.”

“I know. I just… never thought I’d be part of something like this.” He dropped his head onto the steering wheel. “How the fuck did we end up here?”

She turned in her seat to look at him. “Does it matter? We’re here and this is our only way out. Believe me, if there were another option, I’d be all over it.” She shifted back and stared out the windshield at the rain that sluiced down in buckets.

Suddenly, he sat up. “No! You’re not doing this. I am not going to be that guy.”

He reached down to start the car, but she was quicker and snatched the keys out of the ignition.

“We’ve already had this conversation and this is it: Our only option. There. is. no. other. way!” She dropped the keys on the console between them. “Look, if I can handle this, you can handle this. Fuck, I’m the one who’s actually doing something. You just have to sit around and wait.”

It was his turn to stare at her. “Yeah, it’s so easy for me. Just sit there while my girlfriend is violated. And, why? Because we owe a shit ton of money and I can’t keep a fucking job. It’ll be a piece of god damned cake.” He looked out the side window as the rain ran in streams down its surface. “Fuck you,” he said softly. He heard her breathe in sharply. He didn’t turn back.

“I’m sorry,” she said, with a catch in her voice. “I guess I didn’t think of what this is doing to you.” Her voice trembling, she said, “Look at me.” He didn’t move and his breathing began to fog the window. On the verge of tears, she begged him, “Look at me. Please.” His window became opaque as his breath continued to cloud it. Crying, she pleaded with him, “Won’t you please look at me!” Slowly, he turned back, but stopped short of doing what she asked.

“Look,” she said. “This has got me on edge and I just wasn’t thinking about how it was affecting you. Can you forgive me?” He continued to stare out the windshield. “Please?” she added, a hint of desperation in her voice.

He took in a breath, held it a second and slowly let it out. “Yeah. I guess we’re both having a harder time with this than we thought we would.” He fumbled around in the console, coming out with a napkin. He wiped the window clear. They sat quietly for a few minutes.

“So, what time is it, now?” she asked.

“Getting closer.”.

She nodded. “So, you talked to Kat and she said it wasn’t so bad, right?” There was much less confidence in voice than had been there earlier.

“She said she was super-nervous at first, just like you. They gave her a something to take the edge off and she just sort of floated through the whole rest of the… thing.”

She hesitated for a second, then asked, “What did Tony say?”

A sour look came over his face and he answered, “Tony didn’t say shit. He just sat there. After a minute or two, he got up and left the room. Kat told me he had a really hard time with the whole thing. Went bought some 4 Loko and got fucked up while it was going on.”

She sat there, staring at the rain on the car window and said in a voice almost too soft to hear, “You won’t do that to me, will you?”

His head whipped around. “Wha—, why the fuck would you even ask that?!?” he snapped.

She flinched. There was a drawn-out pause, then she said, “Well, there was that time at I got so drunk I―”

He slammed his fist on the dashboard, “You are never going to let me forget that, are you!” His window and the windshield both began to film over with vapor and he gave a short, bitter laugh. “One time,” he said, holding up a finger. “One time I leave you at a party and you just can’t let it go.”

“But, I was passed out in Tony’s bedroom!” she protested. “Anything could’ve happened.”

“Oh, you were safe enough,” he said. “If you’re a guest in Tony’s house, he’s not gonna let bad shit happen to you.”

“You don’t know that. He can’t be everywhere.”

“Whatever. Nothing happened, so everything’s cool. Why do you have to bring that up every time I say I’ll do something?”

She sat there for a moment, before saying, “I don’t know. I guess I can be kind of bitch sometimes.” He nodded. She pulled her arms in across her chest, hugging her herself. “I’m sorry. I won’t mention it again.”

“It’s okay,” he said, grabbing another napkin and wiping the condensation away. He reached out and caressed her face. “And, don’t worry. I’ll be right outside the whole time, waiting for you.” She smiled and laid her hand in his. He let their hands fall onto the console. Then, she wrapped her arm in his and pulled it in. It was as close to a hug as could be managed in the confines of the front seat.

They sat that way, in silence, for a few minutes before she asked, “What time is it?”

He glanced at the clock. “You’ve got a few minutes.” After a long pause, he asked again, “You sure you want to do this?”

“No, I’m not. I’m scared. Like, really, really fucking scared.”

He looked down. “I know. So am I. But what else can we do?” He exhaled. “I mean, do you have any idea how bad things will get if we don’t handle this, right now?” She nodded. “I don’t even want to think of the consequences if we back out. It will not be pretty.”

She hugged his arm tighter and said, “I know. I’ll do it. I’m just… scared, that’s all.”

“Yeah,” he said, “me too.” They sat there, watching the rain as it coursed down the windows of the car. A smile played across his face and he said, “Hey, remember that time down by the lake…”

“What? You mean that time with the ducks?”

“Yeah.” He let out a tiny laugh. “They were after the sandwiches an—“, the alarm on his phone began to sound. “It’s time,” he said.

Without a word, she reached into the back seat and grabbed a small duffle packed with all the things she’d need. As she turned back around, he pulled her to him and kissed her. She looked at him for a moment. Then she got out of the car and walked through the pouring rain to the door of the building. He watched her all the way, until she disappeared inside. Then he turned and sat there, watching the rain on the car windows.