Now, first off, I have to tell you that I like the heels. I'm not crazy about the dress (when was that look fashionable, back in the '70s?), but I really like the heels.
Just not on Sam.
I was sitting at my desk in my office at the World Headquarters of the All John All The Time World Church, which is conveniently located in the bucolic and always sunny and warm San Fernando Valley here in LA (pronounced LAH), working on next month's announcements for the AJATTWC NO BULLetin, when the phone rang. Since it does this periodically during the day, I wasn't surprised by it.
"PJTT...hey, Mike...yeah, last week...hey, did you see where Selig said no go to the Fox TV deal for the Dodgers?...Frank McShitwad, on the first flight outta' of LA, thank you and please pass the artichokes...he's the only owner in the MLB that's worse than the ownership group for the Cubs, and that's a pretty low standard, I gotta' tell you. So what's up?...again?...yeah, actually, it has been awhile. Where they sending us?...what's in Port Orchard WAH?...the kid did what?...oh, yeah, this boy needs help, big time...when do we leave?... then I better hustle. Call you from WAH."
The call was from my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, not the one who starred in "Space Jam"); he tells me that the Bored Of Elders of the AJATTWC is sending the Harley Dog and I off on one of our "missionary trips", where we go to some god-forsaken outback, like Thuringia, Germany, or Grand Rapids MI, or even, gasp of horror, Lower Zimbabwe (home of the ebert) or even the planet HumidorPrime (home of the Whopper).
Now whenever my sidekick, roommate and best buddy, Mr. Harley Dog (see picture that way --->) and I are sent on one of these missions to spread the message of the "soothing balm of Johnism", we generally take my atomic powered rocket ship, the Royal Unionship Kidding (RU Kidding for short, picture of which is also that way --->), because the Kidding is equipped with HyperAromaDrive, which allows the ship to approach and slightly exceed the Speed Of Aroma. It's a great ship, with a shitload of amenities, including space to sleep 8 adults, or the starting defensive line for the Chicago Bears, an onboard brewery, a gym, a video game room, two pizza parlors, a WalMart, a drive-through synagogue, (hey, we're tolerant) and a hydroponic "lawn" down in the cargo hold so Harley can "go outside". (Going outside, literally, in a spaceship is generally considered a no-no, unless you're one of those crazy but incredibly brave astronaut guys that zoom all around outside the International Space Station in those jet-pack thingies. Keep up the good work, guys, you've got bigger ones than I'll ever have.)
We have a spacesuit for Harley, specially made no less, in case he ever has to actually "go outside" the ship; he hates it, though, because he has to have his tail tucked inside. With Harley's luck, if he doesn't keep the old tail inside, he'll get radiation burns on his butt. (That's has to be unpleasant.) ("No, numb-nuts, your ex-wife was unpleasant, radiation burns on your butt would hurt like a bitch. And there's your ex-wife again, twice in the same sentence.")
So the guys in back are getting the Kidding all prepared for the trip, (including stocking the 'fridge and making sure my gerbil golf clubs are onboard) and we're off later this morning. This will be a very short "jump", since we're only going to, where the hell are we going again? Oh, yeah, Port Orchard WA. (What the hell kind of name is "Port Orchard", anyway? I don't get the connection; I mean, a port is for ships and boats and fisherman and whales and sea urchins and sea teenagers and the Queen Mary and crab shacks and I don't know what all and an orchard is a collection of trees. Huh??) Anyway, since WA is "relatively" close to LA (pronounced "I'll have my people call your people"), other than with hand grenades or horseshoes, the trip will be short, and we should arrive in Port Collection Of Trees well before lunch (and hopefully in time for a quick round of gerbil golf before we have to get to work).
Now there's an interesting explanation for why the young man above, a ninth-grader in Port Collection Of Trees named Sam Saurs, is dressed the way he is. It seems he commented to his mother one day that he didn't think walking in high heels was that big a deal. (Speaking from experience, I can tell you that, well, never mind that now.) Mom, being one of those types of people (female) that wear high heels with some frequency, apparently took umbrage to this rather cavalier attitude from her offspring towards the difficult act of balancing on thin sticks that are considered to be "fashionable", only because they are "fashionable", and challenged him, according to the article on MNS.com, to "try it".
There's more to the story, but I need to pause here and consider something.
Okay, kid says, hey, high heels, no big deal, Mom, you're a wuss. Mom says, okay, hot rod, you try it. Kid says, (because kids are fundamentally brain damaged), sure.
Now, I don't know about you, but I'm okay with the story to here; smart mouth kid, Mom dares him, he says, okay, Mom, I'll show you, neener-neener-neener, yeah, been there, done that, know the lineup.
But then the kid goes and adds the dress.
And then wears the whole ensemble to school.
I don't know, maybe its just me, but I just have this feeling that if you "come out" as a cross-dresser at the ripe old age of 15, you're going to have a long and difficult life.
Or maybe not, because the world is becoming a more tolerant place, hard as that is to believe and good as it is to see. (I saw an ad for a website in support of Sam Saurs right after I found the article.)
Now Sam may be a "crosser", he may be gay, he may just be a kid with a VERY odd sense of humor and a really strong sense of who he is, or he may just be certifiable. I don't know about that. I do know that old Sam, like those astronauts, does have WAY bigger ones than I'll ever have.
Young man, I admire you for your courage and your sense of the absurd.
Sam got his chops busted by the school authorities and was suspended for the remainder of the school year, later reduced to three days.
His punishment also included not being allowed to attend the ninth-grade dance, which is a real shame, because I understand he was going to wear his basic little black dress, or as its known in fashion circles, the LBD, with some very hot Calvin Klein platforms and an oh so tasteful string of pearls to set the whole thing off.
There was another article on the 'Net the other day, and I didn't save it unfortunately, but basically it reported the story of a security guard at a minor-league baseball stadium being punished by the team for verbally chastising two women fans who had kissed each other while sitting in the stands watching a ballgame. The women, lesbians and partners, told the guard something about their rights and to, basically, piss off. He apparently responded that they may have the legal right to act that way, but in that stadium, they recognized the Bible. (There was no attempt by the author of the article to explain what the guard had said, nor to defend it; I'm assuming the author was smart enough to realize that neither was possible.)
Wouldn't you love to hear what Bible Bill would have to say about Sam Saurs and his most recent collection, now being shown in fine stores everywhere?
Is this a great country or what?
Love and size three,
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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