If 10% of the chaste and holy monks are gay, does that fulful the requirements of b-a-hetronormativity day?
Isolated single-gender populations tend to exhibit a sharply higher incidence of homosexual attraction than is otherwise natural. There are also social factors that would presumably skew the base population towards high Kinsey.
That said, you can make the strong case that monks are heteronormative by default. They support the default assumption of our society that when you have two men together, they won’t so much be kissing as praying, cultivating a simple life, or training one another in powerful kung fu.
I feel kind of sad that blog against heteronormativity day is the *one* blog against X day I’ve managed to make so far, so I would also like to take this occasion to note that I am also very much against X.
Do you dream about Hitherby characters sometimes, Rebecca?
Not when I’m asleep. ^_^
I just remembered that in the dream there was a miniature man named Bath Martin who the queen had created to clean bathtubs. That’s just strange.
And thus Sir Quacks-A-Lot came to the black court of Bath Martin on the other side of the drain.
Bath Martin sat slumped upon his throne, his hat askew.
Casually, he gestured.
“Raar!” cried the Bath Scum Beast. It reared its shining head. Its maw dripped open. It galumphed towards Sir Quacks-A-Lot. But in three moves the knight slew it. Its substance boiled as it died, cracking, releasing heat, and sizzling there, in the black court of Bath Martin, on the other side of the drain.
“Do you have more?” asked Sir Quacks-A-Lot.
Bath Martin considered. He raised his hand.
The Lady of Hair stepped forward. Beneath the eddying of her hair Sir Quacks-A-Lot was sure he saw a face.
“I can’t kill a Lady,” said Sir Quacks-A-Lot.
“What is your chivalry to me?” asked Bath Martin.
So there happened deeds not spoken of in the bathtime books, nor sung of on Sesame Street.
“I had expected her to kill you,” said Bath Martin.
“I have come on a holy mission,” said Sir Quacks-A-Lot. “I am here to destroy this black court you have builded, on the other side of the drain. I cannot let myself be killed.”
“Fool of a duck,” said Bath Martin.
He rose. He took off his hat. He set it down.
“What business has a bath toy down the drain?” he asked, stepping forward. “What is it to you what I build with the scum and hair and dirt that the owner leaves in the bathtub between cleanings? Can’t you understand that there is no virtue in a bath save that created by the contrast between light and darkness, cleanliness and shadow, the porcelain of the bath and the scum of my court?”
“It is true that bathtime loses something,” said Sir Quacks-A-Lot, “if it is only light, and never darkness. But you are clogging the drain, Bath Martin. You are clogging the drain.”
“And will you fight me, then?” asked Bath Martin.
His hands ringed themselves with an aura of lye such as to scrub the faltering dreams of light from any rubber duckie’s eyes.
“No,” said Sir Quacks-A-Lot. “I would never defeat you.”
And Sir Quacks-A-Lot touched the button on his chest and the bath bomb ignited.
And of the black court of Bath Martin on the other side of the drain little more is heard.
There are some who say that to bathe in a tub where light opposes darkness is best; and there are some who say that a bath bomb from Lush supercedes the virtue of dark kingdoms. But to pontificate on such things is cruel and arrogant when you have never been Bath Martin, a creator tasked with an employment of destruction, or Sir Quacks-A-Lot, driven by necessity beyond the chivalry of ducks.
I guess vampire hell is modular arithmetic…
It’s one of the best Hells to go to if you’re a human, though.
I imagine that it would be something like this.
Mr. Dobson rears up from the stinking muck, tentacles flailing, eyes blazing with infernal fire. Wielding the judgment given unto him by the LORD, he says, “I curse ye to HELL!”
You plummet, screaming, towards the lake of fire and brimstone. But at the last moment, you whip out your parasol and open it. The wind of the netherworld, driven by the heat of the lake, catches hold. It yanks you sideways into the Hell of Modular Arithmetic.
“One, two, three, zero, one, two, three,” counts a helpless vampire beside you.
You are not intimidated.
“I demand sandwiches!” you cry.
The modular arithmetic devils snarl and make you do modular arithmetic. “What’s seven plus two?” they sneer.
“One,” you say.
They cringe before you. You are the master here now.
“Sandwiches,” you remind them, your voice low and dangerous.
They scurry off. They bring you sandwiches.
“Two, three, zero, one, two, three,” counts the vampire.
“Someone increment that poor bastard’s modulus,” you say.
“FOUR!” cries the vampire. “Four! Ahahahahahaha!”
Lightning flashes. Thunder booms, for the first time in a million years, in Hell.
“All right,” you say. “You devils. You vampire. And you, over there, with your special bag. We’re going to take that Dobson on.”
“But what about me?” asks Mr. Phelps. He was totally prepared for Hell—he had a parasol and an enchanted deck of poker cards. But he never studied modular arithmetic, so he never got his chance to win Hell from the Devil in three hands!
“You stay there, Mr. Phelps,” you say. “Next to the Pain Octopus.”
It’s cruel to the Pain Octopus, but you can’t help it! You’re a firm believer in predestination, and you know God had planned the damnation of that octopus all along.
Your score is 5 points out of a possible 7, giving you a title of RAPTURE ROOKIE.
Anyway! That’s all the letters for this month. Thanks for reading, thanks for donating, thanks for commenting, thanks for everything!
I’ll be aiming to update every other day until I feel better.