Mother Pelosi and Father Frank (by Phila)

Phil Harris has written a chilling dystopian fable, about a time not long from now, in which the Obama Revolution has been accomplished.

It's about an old man -- formerly a preacher and a hunter -- who dares to tell his grandson about the Good Old Days, when churches existed, and there were still some restrictions on abortion and faggotry, and you could own...well, not as many guns as you wanted, maybe. But a lot.

This quote will give you a general idea of the tone:

“But Grandpa...the statues of Mother Pelosi, Father Frank, and Father Reid looking up at the Leader all look very happy,” insisted Max.

“That’s because they are happy Maxy,” Grandpa John replied.

Unfortunately, the narrator's dim view of Teh Leader has come to the attention of Timmy's Two Dads, who believe themselves to have been charged, in this topsy-turvy world, with upholding the moral order:

“Why were you talking about me with Timmy’s two dads? Don’t you remember when I told you it would be best to keep our little talks between us?”

“Sorry Grandpa,” Max replied, “I forgot.”

“It’s okay Max,” said Grandpa John, “don’t worry about it.”

But the damage is done. Obama's goon squad is already at the door:

“You have been charged with contributing to the delinquency of a minor child,” answered the officer. “Sir, you should be ashamed of yourself for filling this boy’s mind with hateful thoughts. Now he will have to undergo retraining.”

John closed his eyes and sighed. He knew that Timmy’s two dads had probably called him in.

It's easy to laugh at this little story; it's kitschy, maudlin, and jaw-droppingly stupid. But given that sentimentalism tends to be a prelude to violence, I think it's worthwhile to look beneath the veneer of silliness, and consider why the story is actually pretty effective on its own terms.

Its theme is the loss of power over other people. Timmy's two dads should be quaking in fear that their perversion will be made public. Instead, they're sending the authorities to a Christian's house, with the aloof arrogance of people who feel themselves to be perfectly secure. It's not the violation of privacy that's the problem, or the fact that a man whose way of life is thought to endanger children is hauled away by the state; the problem is that it's happening to the wrong people. The freedom that has died is the narrator's freedom to do to gays and women what gays and women are now free to do to him. Harris actually goes to some trouble to underscore this point:

“Shut your mouth old man,” replied the female officer, who was now standing at his side. “Speaking of the Leader in a disrespectful manner can be a capital offense. If you keep talking like that, we will add it to your charges.”

For all his griping about the passing of the Glory Days, the narrator is not a hero, by any means; he's quite passive when the officers come into his house and take him away. What's missing, obviously, is a gun; without it, the narrator is feminized and weak, and "tears fill his eyes." This is castration anxiety with a vengeance: Not only has Grandpa forfeited the moral right to lay down the law to queers and women, he's also lost the physical ability to defend himself, as an individual, against the diseased collectivity represented by the statues of a woman, a homosexual, a black man, and their pathetic white male courtier.

Both these problems boil down to a lack of firepower; the moral of the story, pretty much, is "don't wind up like this loser; get them before they get you." (Or as James Adkisson put it, "If life aint worth living anymore don't just kill yourself. do something for your Country before you go. Go Kill Liberals.")

The other thing that's worth noting is the assumption that as soon as you stop oppressing people, they'll seek revenge. This echoes white fears about what might happen once the slaves were freed, as well as this remarkable argument from the London Times, in regards to the perils of Irish emigration:

[N]o longer cooped up between the Liffey and the Shannon, he will spread from New York to San Francisco, and keep up the ancient feud at an unforeseen advantage...To the end of time a hundred million spread over the largest habitable area in the world, and, confronting us everywhere by sea and land, will remember that their forefathers paid tithes to the Protestant clergy, rent to absentee landlords, and a forced obedience to the laws which these had made.

Thus, oppression in the past mandates oppression for the foreseeable future...unless, of course, you'd prefer to live out your days as the plaything of Timmy's Two Dads, by order of Mother Pelosi and Father Frank.

Praise the Lord, and pass the ammunition!