As you may or may not know, I am on my way to Provincetown for the entire summer. I have never played the popular gay destination and hope to make enough money to get central air-conditioning for my charming-but-hotter-than hell new home and perhaps even landscape my enormous backyard (and no, that is not a euphemism for getting a butt lift!). I’m leaving tomorrow and, frankly, I’m scared. No, I am not afraid of hard work—I’ve been earning my own money since I was 14. What I am afraid of is existing without everything that makes life worth living. You see, my idea of “roughing it” is basic cable and room-temperature domestic bottled water. I keep assuring myself that I can handle nine weeks in P-Town. After all, I did seven weeks in Vegas when I opened for Roseanne. Of course, I was allowed to take my dogs with me and I stayed in a luxury condo with its own Jacuzzi and fireplace (which makes about as much sense as a snow mobile in Hawaii). Sadly, this time around, I will be without my precious pooches and I have been warned, I will not be nestled within the lap of luxury. I will, instead, be precariously perched on the knobby knees of utility. The bathroom is not only upstairs, but it is to be shared with other people. Other People. It sounds like a terrifying new movie by M. Night Shamalamadingdong (no, you and your friends are not the only one’s to call him that—everyone does, queen!). I don’t want to say I’m selfish, but if you ever hear me say the word “share” with a smile on my face, you can bet it’s spelled C-H-E-R. I have also received e-mails from the club owner cheerfully reminding me to “bring queen size sheets and some towels!” Huh? Anyhoo, I have been so busy traveling (I arrived in Des Moines at the very moment it was declared a disaster zone due to flooding) and getting ready for P-Town that I have decided to pull out a dusty old gem from the vault, shine it up and put it in the display case for y’all. In other words, here’s some old material.

Since gay marriage is back in the headlines, I would like to share one of the best things I have ever written: my explanation why marriage should remain a union between a man and a woman only. Enjoy!

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If you need proof that “normal” straight marriage is sacred, all one has to do is look to the stars. No, not the heavenly stars above—the trendsetting stars in Hollywood! For instance, take the female performer Jennifer Lopez. Her marriage to the male pop singer Marc Anthony is a glorious thing in God’s eyes. So was her first marriage to Ojani Noa. And her second to Cris Judd. And I’m sure God will smile upon her next marriage, too. And who could watch five minutes of Britney & Kevin: Chaotic and not see the quiet dignity of marriage? And the vagina-sporting actress Renee Zellweger’s five-minute marriage to the penis-equipped country singer Kenny Chesney is also a golden example. So are Woody Allen and his one-time adopted daughter—and now wife—Soon-Yi. As was Anna Nicole Smith and J. Howard Marshall II, who was 60 years her senior. Want even more evidence? How about one of my all-time favorite married couples—Peter Bogdanovich and Louise Stratten, who is not only 29 years younger than him, but had plastic surgery to look more like her sister, Playboy centerfold Dorothy Stratten, with whom Bogdanovich had an affair before her enraged husband blew her brains out with a shot gun and sodomized her dead body. Add to this all the green-card marriages, mail-order brides, reality-show love connections, Mormon polygamists and women who marry serial killers on death row and the argument is settled once and for all. Can’t you just hear the birds singing while God nods with approval? So you see, this is why you, as a defective homosexual, cannot get married. It’s just not right. Not when you step back, take a good look at marriage and realize just how sacred it really is.

illustration by www.glenhanson.com