Colorful language is my thing. Some people suspect I have Tourettes, such is my propensity for the naughty word, but no. It’s all quite intentional.
This week saw the passing of self-proclaimed “Minister” Fred Phelps, spreader of the gospel of fear, ignorance and hatred primarily directed at gays. My uneducated guess is that the amount of self-loathing he felt far surpassed the loathing he directed at anyone else. We project onto others that which we most fear about ourselves.
Still, how a soul born into the natural state of love, as we all are, can be turned so dark is beyond my understanding. Even the use of the word “hate” produces shadows that chill me. As a child, I was reprimanded if I said it. “Fuck?” No problem. “Hate?” A gateway to hell.
To this day, I don’t use that word. Okay, I may say that I hate it when some asshole is going 25 in a 45-mph zone, but what I really mean is that I’m righteously annoyed. And even then, I don’t hate the asshole. I hate what the asshole is doing.
I wouldn’t have ever wished Phelps dead. Really bad juju. But now that he is dead, I will say I’m glad he’s gone. It would be nice if this meant the end to his so-called church, too, but I’m sure another captain of ignorance will rise to lead his pack of puke.
That sounded kind of hateful, didn’t it? Oh, well. Fuck it.