I keep telling you about the Law of Merited Impossibility — “It will never happen, and when it does, you people will deserve it” — and how it applies, not to the LGBTQ people who claim to be oppressed when actually they run everything (which is the reason why I’m not at the Washington Post), but to increasingly persecuted American Christians, who must cower in their ruined churches, forced to make do with wimpy folk masses with their flaccid flannel flags rather than the big organs of True Religion, oppressed by the yoke of Social Justice and Big Gay. (Did you know, by the way, there is an ice cream brand — in New York, of course! — called Big Gay? It’s like they’re rubbing our noses in it! And did you notice that, just as this oh-so-politically-correct ice cream took off, the Christian-value ice cream brand Blue Bell mysteriously developed listeria? Maybe you think it’s a coincidence, but I know differently, thanks to one of the ghosts I’m always seeing who whispered to me it was the doing of “The Evil One.” I tell you, I’m no Trump fan, but things like this make me glad he’s our President.)
This Gay/Liberal/Socialist menace is so pervasive and so devious that it infests every part of our culture, and even the most seemingly innocent entertainments can be part of its Satanic arsenal. We don’t allow our sons to use smartphones or digital watches — they use sextants and sundials, like the ancients did — or go to movies or concerts or watch anything but the Christian Broadcasting Network, Fox News, and VeggieTales (they’re both teenagers now but they still enjoy the classics). When I homeschool the boys, in between Bible readings and whippings I instruct them to be vigilant lest they get seduced by the attractive artifacts the Gay Mafia and Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez might use to lure them from the path of righteousness.
But it’s not just the children who must be on guard. The other day I found myself humming that catchy little tune that’s gotten so popular, “Baby Shark.” I don’t even know where I first heard it, that's how pervasive the thing is.
And I thought nothing of it — just a cute song about a shark family, I thought, what’s the big deal? Boy, was I wrong. Over at the Throne and Altar blog, the contrarian “Dark Inquisition” philosopher Periwig Puzzlewit unmasks the relativist evil under the sunny surface:
Mayhap ye are so accustomed to the incantatory, indeed Negrotic rhythms of ye modern “pop” “rock” “music” that ye see no peril in the subjection of thy hips and buttocks to its lurid sway; but tarry ye awhile and attend the vile imagery in ye video; for thereunto are fairy-children, of the indeterminate sexual identity favor’d by ye catamite Masters. The little boy Chinee minces and vogues like a very crumpet, and not like ye hardy lads who shinny’d up trees, wrestl’d, and bath’d naked in rivers in the Old America of mine salad days, and in Thailand when I visit on ye speciality tours. &tc., though in addition to “baby” shark there be as well ye “mommy,” “daddy,” “grandpa,” and “grandma” variants yet there be no show of patriarchal order — their relations be atomized by the malign equality that is the curse of ye Enlightenment. Where, pray, shall striplings learn their place in the Divine Order? More like this and they may defy even ye lash of thy birch rod.
That was enough for me. I told the boys no more '“doo doo doo doo doo doo” for them. They seemed to take it okay, but you could tell the strain of all this resisting temptation is getting to them. I tell you, folks, if you’re letting your children — or yourselves — fall under the sway of this transgender propaganda, I have to wonder whether you’ve been paying attention. Maybe you better read my book, The Benedict Option (in stores now), again, or buy another copy. I tell you, I’m no Trump voter, but when I think of that little sissy shaking his tiny butt in his onesie, I thank God such a man is President.
UPDATE. Look, if you’re going to make jokes about kids’ butts I’m going to close down comments. What is the matter with you people. You can’t even see the boy’s butt — it’s hidden by an inner tube. I was just trying to show what this kind of thing can lead to. You’re all sick.
UPDATE. Wow. A reader in Fritters, Alabama, which you would expect to be a godly place, writes to tell me what she saw in the town’s little library. I tell you, I was shocked:
Rod, I never would have believed it, but I went into the library to take out a Bible and what did I see right there in front of the card catalogue but a bunch of little children dancing in their pajamas to that awful shark song! I couldn’t help but ask some of the parents why they let their children display themselves in such a way. They all acted like I was the crazy one, but one of them, a beatnik-looking lady in a black leotard, beret, and cats-eye glasses, smoking a cigarette in a long cigarette holder, took me aside and whispered, “But it’s such a cute song — besides, God is dead, everything is permitted.” The librarians, meanwhile, leered at the younguns and made comments like “I’d like to take that one to Story Time.” The poor lambs had no idea!
I know this reader’s name, address, and what kind of car she drives, so no fair saying I made her up. By the way, as the lures and snares of transgender liberal socialism grow more powerful, some of you may be interested in an added layer of defense for your children, so I urge you to watch this space for what I think will be useful tool: The Ben Op butt plug. There’ll be discounts for the elect.