My Letter in Support of Rick Santorum

I wrote a letter supporting Rick Santorum’s campaign today, with the subject line, “Thank you for defending long-standing, conservative values”.  If you care to send your own, their e-mail address is Info@RickSantorum.com.  My letter is copied below.

Dad Rowland: "Just the sweater vests alone is enough for me to hate him."

Dear Future President Rick Santorum,

I just wanted to express to you my sincere appreciation for the values you’ve been so valiantly fighting for.  Your resistance to those who would breach morals that have defined humanity across time is nothing short of impeccable.  I was especially heartened by your recent stance regarding contraception:

“One of the things I will talk about that no president has talked about before is… the dangers of contraception in this country, the whole sexual libertine idea.” You continued, “Many in the Christian faith have said, ‘Well, that’s okay. Contraception’s okay.’ It’s not okay because it’s a license to do things in the sexual realm that is counter to how things are supposed to be.”

I am totally in agreement with you, as are many of my cohorts.  The great majority of them have never used birth control.  I have never used birth control.  You see, birth control hasn’t been around very long, but most couples before the 1960′s didn’t want to live like the Duggars.  So like me, they did it in a way I like to call “Little House on the Prairie Style”.  Because I’m sure when you decided that you had had enough children, you didn’t go out and buy a separate bed or use any form of birth control.  You stared at those beady little eyes in the mirror, you ripped off that sweater vest, and you decided it was time to start doing it Little House on the Prairie Style.  And I salute you.  I’ve been doing it Little House on the Prairie Style for years now, and I have not had a single abortion yet, even though I’m sure I’ve made enough deposits to stock a sperm bank in Everymanisdeadistan.  I can assure you, my little swimmers aren’t coming close to any eggs.  Well, unless my new holistic health remedy starts selling, Chicken Egg Enemas, which I’m marketing under the very catchy trademark “Chickenemas”.  And if those get anyone pregnant, we’ll end up with a race of Chicken-Human hybrids, which will either quickly dominate and destroy humanity, or they’ll be loving, docile creatures that we can ride like horses, in the way that I always wished I could ride an ostrich as a young boy.  In any event, I’m sure as president the reputation of your name alone will constantly remind the nation of the many options outside of the missionary position that we can explore when contraception is outlawed.

I wish I could offer you more than just my letter of support, like a large campaign donation or CPAC, but the dog got everything in the divorce.  I told the judge that she was just going to use the child support to buy Kibbles n’ Bits while she shacked up with whichever jerk slathered himself in peanut butter.  But you know how judges are these days (probably because almost a fifth of them are women).  I cannot wait until you’re the man appointing them, a man who recognizes that a man should be the head of the household.  Until that order is restored, my mother will continue to decide when the TV is devoted to a five hour NCIS marathon, even after she lied to me and dad and told us she would let us have the remote after White Collar, which is totally unconscionable seeing as how she has them all on the DVR and can watch them whenever she wants to.  Please restore us to the time period when mothers stayed home and hired less white moms to work for them.  I don’t know what the less white moms did.  Never really thought about it.  Just so long as I get the DVR back.

Either we can stop having sex, or you can experience what it feels like when I make an up and down motion with my tongue for about five hours. I'll give you a minute to think about it.

And I fail to ignite a Supertopo flame war

License and registration, please.

I’m a loser.  On Supertopo, you can ignite flame wars lasting hundreds, thousands, or tens of thousands of posts long about topics as lame as the Compressor route fiasco, shooting bears, putting lipstick on bears, or having sex with bears, but, I totally failed to get a flame war going when I was trying to start one on purpose, and the subject matter I was dealing with is obviously far more controversial than what constitutes proper bear food (hint: you, unless you’re in a car, or are double wielding .44 magnums).

Subject matter being Homo Climbtastic going to West Virginia in July.  Supertopans primarily live out west, and prefer climbing in bitter, dry, cold areas.  Supertopans fear summer in West Virginia like Star Jones fears Nene Leakes:

Although Star Jones rebukes Nene’s approach to interpersonal conflicts as the product of a lack of education, Star just doesn’t know that Nene is reacting in the same way all of us Atlantans do when encountering manipulative a-holes:  Star: “At least let me know what you’re accusing me of.” Nene: “Shut the fuck up.”

Example: I have a summa cum laude English degree and people are still complaining that I sullied the gays’ relationship with our current governor when I kind of sort of publicly e-mailed him regarding my dissatisfaction with his campaign commercials and the most eruditic treasure from my lexicon was “big ole wad of donkey cum.”  (At least I can say that out of 1,350,000 results, my “big ole wad of donkey cum” is first on Google.)

Atlanta. Shut the fuck up.

So after failing with Supertopo, I started a forum thread on RealJock.  That probably won’t work either, because the most popular forum threads there include:

I just can’t compete with those.  Also, the guys on RealJock all have abs that put the men on the cover of Men’s Health to shame, the result of a body fat percentage low enough to cause renal failure when leaning back against concrete surfaces.  To be fair, the abs/chests are usually an attempt to compensate for the face.  Or brain, or their brain’s face.  But nobody on RealJock cares about those.  Hell, when I get on there, it’s because I’m in that kind of mood where I don’t either.  If you get my drift.  And I think ya do.

Thus, I’m turning to you, Homo Climbtastic members, fans, and friends!  Post about us to places we’ve never seen, heard of, or posted to!  Or just get on the Supertopo/RealJock threads and start throwing flaming poo bombs!  Tell them you’re going to bolt all the walls on Yosemite with two feet spacing between each bolt and you’re spray painting them in bright pink ACROSS ARBITRARY LINES THAT AREN’T ANY GOOD AND YOU’RE GONNA DRY TOOL YOUR 300 POUND BODY UP THE WHOLE WAY TO GET THERE.  Also you’ll be on lead on aid hooks with an infant attached to you with one of those little infant carrying things, and accuse anyone who gets mad that they’re misogynists and that you already bought the crampons and you will not be a victim!  (Editor: Maybe a good spot for another photo?  Ra-ra: I couldn’t find a picture of a fat man dry tooling El Cap on aid gear with a baby attached to him, in case anyone feels like photoshopping one together for me.  Must be believable enough to trick the Supertopans.  Also, he should be wielding a .44 Magnum and be shooting a black bear trying to eat the burrito he left at the base of the crag. Editor: Maybe it would be more offensive if he were bolting while rapping? Ra-ra: Maybe he’s dry tooling, and the infant is rapping?)

Spread the message of our cult far and wide!  I don’t have the time, money, or skill to go chop the remaining anchors on the Compressor route or otherwise bring about climbing infamy the old fashioned way, so please, come up with something that would make me, Nene, and the rest of Atlanta proud!  We’re counting on you!

We Are So Fucking Inclusive

I was just reading Ra-Ra’s post about the lube wrestling contest being trashed and started celebrating.  I know, I know, so many of you tacky bitches just fucking love watching hot climbers get all lubed up and go at it, but I thought it was a horrible idea.  I may be old gododamned fashioned, or I may be fucking boring, but I shudder to think of HC conventions becoming nothing more than an opportunity to explore the idea of an outdoor gay bar.

Shit's always sexier in your head than it is in reality.

One of the things I’ve always loved about HC is that we seem to have a wrench for every nut.  Whatever your orientation, wherever you’re from, as long as you have a sense of humor about yourself, you’re welcome to come.  Holy fuck I think that may have sorta’ rhymed…look at me, I’m a fucking poet over here.  Anychrist, when I showed up at my first HC convention I was really fucking nervous that this would be another gay event where we adhered to the classic gay stereotypes…everybody get fucked up, everybody sleep with each other, and everybody get dramatic about nothing.  OK, you’re thinking, that sounds like a good time…you’ve spent more time on your knees in the past year than Tebow, and the good news for you is that there will be people at an HC convention who are just like you!  And y’all can all run off and do blow off a West Virginia stripper’s dick!  I don’t recommend it, West Virginia strippers are often lucky to have all of their original teeth, but that’s neither hither nor thither.  Point is you can have that experience.

West Virginia Strippers: You don't want a piece of this.

And I can have my experience, too.  I don’t like gay bars, so I don’t like the idea of gay bar activities being our recreation at an HC convention.  The great news is that there are a lot of people who climb with HC who feel exactly the same way, so even if the lube wrestling contest was still “on”, or someone managed to get a DJ (I cannot fucking believe this is still a ‘thing’…I really did think all the DJ’s had over-dosed and died back in the 90′s) we would find something else to do.  Maybe go off and form a drum circle or nurture our inner child or squat over some mirrors.  Some shit like that, you know, all warm & fuzzy or what the fuck ever.  Hey…I’m old, I’m married, I have kids, and I had to give up the drinking and drugging a long goddamned time ago.  A good time to me is climbing all day, eating with a group of like-minded people, and going to fucking bed.  Oh, and coming up with a way to completely undermine Christianity and civilization as we know it by turning all heterosexuals gay, but only if I can’t sleep.  That one was for you, Rick Santorum…kiss kiss, darling.

Stay classy, Homo Climbtastic!

You should see them at church.

Despite doing things in consistently poor taste every year we’ve been in existence, HC has suffered the umbrage of those who are shocked (shocked!) by the latest thing we’ve done.  This is because like the red light district of Amsterdam, or Brooklyn, or Janet Jackson, we have to do something every so often to prove that we haven’t lost our edge, and that at any moment, Justin Timberlake could expose our collective titty to millions of people.

Otherwise, the umbrage takers might think their harumphing has swayed us against being a constant affront to morality and the reputation of LGBTAQ people everywhere.  And umbrage takers are like mouses who take cookies: first, they ask you not to fellate someone at the top of popular sport crag in New Zealand and write about it.  Next, they’ll be giving you shit because the hem of your dress doesn’t go down to your ankles.  (Editor: Maybe they’re just upset by the quality of your tuck job?  Ra-Ra: You duct-tape a kilbasa to your taint and let me know if it stays there.)

When encountering the homosexuals, New Zealanders respond according to a very strongly ingrained cultural heritage, which is to offer them weed. (On a side note, am I really that tall?)

Thus, every year we have to do something perverse.  So this year, I thought, I’ve got it!  LUBE WRESTLING!  (Actually, Queanh thought of it. Blame her.)

Lube wrestling offers a great many advantages.  It takes something as gender exploitative as a wet t-shirt contest and makes it exploitative in an entirely fresh way.  In no other life circumstance will you have the opportunity to upload photos of yourself greased up and shirtless in a luchadore mask to Facebook without making yourself seem like a narcisstic crazy person.  And if nothing else, it allows you to manufacture long-standing feuds to build up hype, which may or may not include pictures of me and Jonny Mo’s head photoshopped into a Street Fighter II challenge screen.

You need big hair to look good in 8-bit. I considered asking J.Elyea to put other people on the other characters, but I became concerned that it would turn into a racial/gender stereotyping shitshow. Also Chavez doesn't have as much muscle as Chun Li.

But then, I had to get serious.  You could say, I had a reality check.  As much as I liked the idea of all of our climbers getting lubed up and holding each other down in bathing suits while everyone threw dollar bills on them, after which I could have some kind of Requiem for a Dream moment when I throw the dirty money in the air, shouting, “fooled you bitches, I normally do this for free,” I had a reality check while shopping online.

Luchadore masks are fucking twenty-five dollars.

And I would need at least four of them.

So, that was that, as far as the lube wrestling was concerned.  Sure, I was fine with spending twenty bucks on WalMart lube, and I figured someone somewhere would have a deflated wading pool sitting around, but my God, the luchadore masks!  You can’t borrow those!

Thus, barring the appearance of a generous benefactor willing to pay two hundred dollars to see extraordinarily good looking rock climbers get lubed up and wrestle, I’m panning the match.  This would never be an issue in a bar in Atlanta, but this is Homo Climbtastic, and these people divide up most of their money between gasoline and dry pasta.

People suggested charging admission, but HC never charges admission.  It’s one of the fundamental tenets of the Homo Climbtastic religion.  (#37: “Thou shalt not be an HRC dinner.”)  Now I’m trying to think of alternative ice breakers with an edge.  Possibilities:

  • Make acquaintances with six people who have either committed a felony, had group sex, or acquired scabies.  Preferably with one another.
  • Homo Climbtastic crossword puzzle: “Six letters across.  Triggered Danielle’s memory loss episode.  Starts with the letter ‘O’.”
  • Fill in the blank trivia:
    •  “Menage a…. 1) Kia.  2.)  trois.  3.) Honda Accord.  4) Jeep Wrangler.”
    • “Timmy sez… 1) pull hard!  2) I don’t have any cooldowns left!  3.) both!”
  • Turn to the person next to you, and ask if you’d be more fuckable if…
    • you had an eyepatch.
    • you were friends with Whitney Houston.
    • you weren’t friends with Whitney Houston.

As you can see, this is a dire situation.  Somebody help me!

He's only pulling hard cause he burned all his cooldowns.