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      Christians, Cocksucking
           and Garlic Fries

                  by Diana Grove
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What:   May Day for Marriage rally

When:  Saturday, May 1st 2004, a.k.a.
            “May Day” (agrarian celebration
             of the working class,
             seed planting and fertility)

Where:  Safeco Field, Seattle, WA

Who:    20,000 Christians and a few homosexuals

Why:    To decry same sex marriage, eat French fries, and 
             co-mingle with the flock

      I don’t know how you feel about large, organized rallies that feature righteous Christians, irate homosexuals, and vast amounts of garlic fries, but I personally can’t wait to comb my hair and hop on a bus. 
     Such was the case May 1st when my husband announced he wanted to check out the May Day for Marriage rally down at the Seattle baseball stadium.
     At first I thought this was another one of his ploys to get me out of bed and into a pair of baseball tights.  But when I heard there were going to be thousands of people gathered together to worship the Lord and protest same sex marriage, I couldn’t wait to jump up and join in on the fun.
      First, we had to get ready. 
      We showered, shaved and wore extra starch.  We looked impressively God-fearing.  Hand in hand, we hit the streets of Seattle towards Safeco Field. 
      Seeing a 99 cent store, I dashed in to pick up some last minute supplies.  I decided early on if I was going to spend my day rubbing elbows with the children of the Lord I had better prove my worth and have some proper signage.  So after about 15 minutes of trying on all of the Barbie sunglasses, I grabbed some Hello Kitty construction paper and a three-pack of markers and we headed downtown. 
      At the park, the excitement was palpable.  Hordes of same sex marriage supporters chanted and waved banners as the Christians entered the stadium.  I saw two women with their arms wrapped around each other holding a sign that read GAY, MARRIED AND PROUD! 
     I immediately felt sickened. 
     Not because of their complete lack of shame in the eyes of the Lord, but because they had a really nice sign.  It had glitter.  I could have had glitter too, if only I had been more prepared.
      As it turned out, no signs were allowed in the stadium. So I was forced to leave my construction paper on top of a trash can next to a panting German Shepherd. 
      Inside, the ballpark was filled with white, arm waving Christians clamoring for their God given right to claim marriage for themselves.     
      Down on the field, a black reverend with a microphone was damning biblical deviance while impersonating the cadence of Dr. Martin Luther King. 
      Housewives clutched their programs, searching the crowd for homosexuals.  Children colored the blood of Christ in their Life of Jesus coloring books.  Men, pure of body and mind, consumed massive quantities of chili dogs and were deemed blessed in the eyes of the Lord. 
      At one point, a 6-year-old girl wearing a Jesus Is My Homeboy hat walked by, clapping enthusiastically to the pro-marriage dancers. 
     It was a really nice hat - with praying hands and everything… I decided I had to have it. 
      I nudged my husband, “Hey, you trip her - I’ll take the hat.” 
 He said it probably wouldn’t be a very good idea considering she was on crutches. 
      Frustrated at his disinterest in my sudden need for Jesus paraphernalia and fed up with his constant chatter about “1933 Nazi rallies, mindless followers, government control” and so on, I left him with the flock to look for more God swag.
      At this point the crowd was beginning to wear on me, including a mob of chanting gay protesters who had made their way in. They were demanding stuff like “equal rights” and “a chance to be heard,” blah, blah, blah.
      Then I came across some vendors.  Only nothing was for sale. 
One fresh-faced young man was giving away stacks of The Christian Yellow Pages.  This peaked my interest.  Mostly because I wondered how many Christ-friendly carpet cleaning services there were in the city of Tacoma.  I felt compelled to ask a few questions.
      “Hi there.  Will this phone book give me a direct, toll-free line to Jesus?”
      “Uh, well, in a way…yes.” He said optimistically.
      “I mean, can I call up Jesus and ask him for help without any roaming charges?”
      “Ummmm…certainly.”
      “I don’t want any surprise bills showing up you know, no hidden fees, no harassing phone calls during dinner time; I don’t need that kind of trouble.”
      “Ma’am, I think this phone book is for you.”
      An ad showing an 888 number for a grinning Christian lawyer was printed on the front cover.  I pointed to the photograph.
      “I mean, do you think this guy can help me out with my problems?  Does he know Jesus?”
      “Oh yes, I’m quite sure of that.  Why don’t you take a copy?”
      Feeling satisfied that I had just scored something free, I began to feel thirsty.  Seeing a kiosk that advertised beer, I tucked my phone book in my arm pit and attempted to make a purchase. 
     A little blond girl who couldn’t have been more than 18 was standing behind a gigantic tub of iced beverages.  She wearily gave me a half-smile which looked alarmingly un-Christian.  She wiped her brow and asked me what I wanted.
     “Well, I’m pretty thirsty, I’d like 6 beers please.”
      “I’m sorry but you can’t get that here.”
      “No?  Okay, gimme three beers then.”
      “No ma’am, you don’t understand.  I don’t sell beer.”  She was becoming agitated.
      “But it says right here on your sign Beer for $6.25.”
      “Yeah, but I can’t sell beer here.”
      “Ok, fair enough.  Forget the beer, gimme 3 malt liquors and a bag.”
      Now she was really fuming.  “NO.  YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND!  I DON’T SELL BEER!”
      I don’t think she realized she was treading dangerously close to the land of false advertising.
      “Look, it says right here on your sign Malt Liquor Product $7.25.  And frankly for that price, I think I should get a six pack and a free ride home…but that’s just me.” 
      She rubbed her eyes.  “Look lady, you can have a water or a soda.  AND THAT’S IT!”
      I tapped my chin thoughtfully.  “Hmmmmm, no beer huh?  Not even a warm one?”
      She took one final huff.  “NO!  Maybe at another booth, but NOT HERE!” 
      Dejected and still thirsty, I walked through the crowd in search of beer and more free Jesus stuff.  At about 50 paces I saw a card table featuring large, plastic kidney beans on sticks.  I decided to stop and check it out. 
     It turned out to be an anti-abortion organization displaying plastic, life-size models of the human fetus. 
      The man behind the table was very nice and soft-spoken, so I figured I could weasel some free stuff from him (or at least ask some burning questions about amniotic fluid). I eyeballed some key chains he had very carefully laid out on the table in a rainbow configuration.  I decided to ease my way in gently.  
      “Hi, I see you have quite a few anti-abortion key chains here.  Do you by any chance have any refrigerator magnets?”  
      He smiled at me warmly.  “Well, gosh, I’m afraid I don’t.”
      “How about wall calendars or tank tops?  Got anything like that?”
      He clasped his hands together.  “Well, gee, I used to have stuff like that, but it just sat around in boxes ‘cause nobody wanted it.  I do have some literature here though…”
      “Hmmm, literature huh, what about bottle openers?  Do you have any fetus-shaped bottle openers?  I could really use one of those.”  I said as I fondled one of the key chains.
      “No, I sure don’t.  You can have one of those key chains though, they come in real handy.”
      “Hey, thanks.”  I snagged a red, white, and blue key chain and shoved it in my purse next to my markers.  He beamed at me in appreciation and I walked on.
      The mood in the crowd was beginning to shift.  The pro-gay marriage protestors were becoming more vocal and a few even had make-shift signs. 
     I was beginning to feel restless with just two sides opposing one narrow issue.  I mean, aren’t there a lot things that could be debated in this forum?  Why does it have to be so limiting?
      It was at this point my husband rushed up to me in a full lather. It seemed that a formerly gay man had just spoken to the crowd in a rather lispy manner about finding God and converting to heterosexuality. 
      “You have got to make a protest sign. This whole thing is getting too weird.” he said, fishing around for my black magic marker.
      We came up with a brilliant scheme.  Why not create our own movement?  Something topical, yet controversial.  Eye-catching, yet offensive.
     Why should these two opposing groups hate each other so much when they could make things a lot easier by just hating me?  He whispered something in my ear.  I grabbed one of the May Day for Marriage flyers and flipped it over.  With my 99 cent marker I printed my new slogan in big, black letters:

        “HEY, LEAVE THE COCKSUCKING TO WOMEN!”

      Finally, I had my own sign and my own movement, and boy was I proud!  I marched up and down Safeco stadium telling everyone to join me and…

     “For the love of God… LEAVE THE COCKSUCKING TO WOMEN!”
 
      Sure, at first the crowd was confused, then a little upset.  But soon enough, people were really starting to hate me.  Flash bulbs were snapping and parents began shielding their children’s eyes.   My husband, who is usually coursing with testosterone, lagged back in the crowd.  Even he didn’t want to be seen with me.  (Later he explained it was because he was wearing a white shirt, which easily could have become bloodstained when the Old Testament crowd stoned me to death next to a nacho stand.)
      One woman, who had a monobrow and rather powerful looking thighs, approached me. “Hey, which side are you on anyway!?” 
      What else was there to say? “Well, I’m on the side of ...Cocksucking!”   
      She searched my face for any signs of goodness.  Finding none she sneered and hissed, “You’re sssssssssick.” 
      Before she had time to crush my trachea with her hairy thumbs, a journalist for radio station KIRO appeared.  As the gay protestors passed in a long chanting line, I held up my sign and pleaded with them to shun their evil ways.

 “COME ON YOU GUYS, LEAVE THE COCKSUCKING TO WOMEN!” 

      A few laughed, but most were simply confounded. 
      The radio man was not amused.  In fact, he could barely hide his contempt for me.  At that point, I was pretty sure he too would have killed me point blank, if only he had a good place to hide the body. 
      Finally, with arms crossed, he spoke to me.  “So what are you trying to say with this sign of yours?”
      “Well, both of these groups have come out today to voice their opinion about gay marriage.  I just felt like I needed my own movement.  I mean, if you think about it, gay men have so much already.  They have interior design, fancy pantsuits, and an above average understanding of European cheeses.  They’ve got to leave something to us women!  So I say, HEY GAYBOYS, LEAVE THE COCKSUCKING TO WOMEN!” 
      He winced, covered his microphone and said, “Jesus lady, there are children around here!”
      “Oh come on.” I said.  “They’ve got to learn about it sometime.”
 He glared at me like I was lower than worm castings in Snake River Canyon.   
      I decided to continue.  “Oh, so it’s okay to teach children to hate homosexuals early in life but it’s wrong to display a word they won’t even understand until they’re in high school…and then immediately forget when they get married?!”
      A young beefy guy with a brush cut and immense biceps noticed my heated discussion with KIRO.  He then saw my sign and covered his eyes. 
      “Oh God, put that away!  The language…The language!”  He continued to shield his eyes with his gigantic linebacker hands. 
      I gazed at him in astonishment.  “Oh, what, you don’t believe in my movement?  Are you kidding?”  I couldn’t believe this temple to heterosexual manhood didn’t agree that the cocksucking should be left to women. 
      “Well…I mean yes,” he stammered. “But the language…oh, it burns my eyes.  I mean, Jesus said that Christ may dwell in your hearts by faith…and that ye being rooted and grounded in love…and to know the love of Christ…which passeth knowledge…that ye be filled with all the fullness of God, n’ stuff…”
      I stood there slack-jawed in the shadow of his tremendous frame.  “Uh…what?” 
      It was at this point that one of Seattle’s finest charged up to me and snatched my beloved sign.  My brilliant movement was over almost as quickly as it had begun.  I was heartbroken.
      The KIRO man continued to snear at me as muscle boy flexed his triceps and launched into the Lord’s Prayer.   
      “Okay, okay.”  I said.  “Whatever.  Now that I don’t have a sign I don’t have a movement, right?” 
      Perturbed that my glory was cut short, I yelled at the cop, “Hey, what are you gonna do?  Arrest me? What about freedom of speech and all that?”  He took one fiery look at me and was about to take me up on my offer.  But seeing that I was just an average-looking married girl, he turned around and stormed off. 
      Crap, what kind of a rebel am I?  I can’t even get arrested in this town.
      As I left the building on my husband’s arm, sad and dejected, but still reeling with power, I shouted to no one in particular, “I guess you have to have big corporate money and rent a baseball stadium to have a voice these days!  Well, I’ll organize my own rally, you’ll see!  Sure, I may not be able to afford a place like this - maybe I’ll have to have it at the VFW or my own living room or something, but you can be sure about one thing - I’ll have my own “Leave The Cocksucking To Women” dancers and I’ll have plenty of free beer and French fries!” 

If you would like to make a charitable contribution to LEAVE THE COCKSUCKING TO WOMEN, do so via Paypal at: LEAVETHECOCKSUCKINGTOWOMEN.ORG  
(Contributions are not tax deductible)

 This article was originally published in Facsimilation Magazine 2004