Welcome to my handbasket!

There were picketers outside church on Sunday. Fred Phelps and his minions.

I have to admit, I was kind of glad to see the Phelpsies out there. It reminds me of a wonderful bit out of Cyrano De Bergerac:

Ah, friend of mine, believe me, I march better
‘Neath the cross-fire of glances inimical!

Fred is one of those folks whose enemies list I’m happy to be on. Because I certainly don’t want to be mistaken for one of his friends.

Fred and the friends he had hauled into town were there to let everyone know that America was damned, and that we were all going to hell for the sin of not hating gays with sufficient fervor to please his definition of God.

There were also counter-protesters, mostly local veterans and families of vets. Y’see, Fred and his band of buffoons have taken to desecrating flags and screaming invective at the funerals of soldiers killed in Iraq, because obviously what grieving military families need is a bunch of whack-job nutters claiming that your tragedy was God’s judgement on America for tolerating homosexuality.

Yeah.

Don’t ask me to understand his way of thinking. I’m having enough trouble fitting the phrases “tolerating homosexuality” and “United States Military” into my head at the same time.

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