Wednesday, September 27, 2006

Flap? Snap!

We had occasion to pass three flags on Sunday all at half mast. Half mast unnerves me - I always worry that I'm unaware of some national day of mourning like Memorial Day or my father's birthday. Trust me, you can get into trouble if you are unaware of days that are very important to other people - like that one day that I licked my thumb and rubbed the dirt off of someone's was no so cool.

Also, I wonder if there's ever a hierarchy of half-mastedness. Like, if Michigan's governor died (which, if we've got AmWay Junior on the throne in January, would be just fine by me), would Michigan's flag be at half mast while the American flag waved snappily in the breeze, saying:

"I don't care if I lose one governor. I've got fifty! Wait. Do I have fifty? Does Puerto Rico have a governor? I think it might. Isn't there another territory, like Guava or Gaul or something? Oh, I don't know, but my point still stands! I have fifty-something governors! Oh, wait, if one dies, I might have fourty-nine, plus, like a second-stringer. But, listen, I have more than I need at any one one dying doesn't really *lower* me, if you know what I mean."

I asked the Doctor if we knew of any particular reason for the low flags. She shrugged and said: "I dunno.

Maybe God hates flags."

Which made me laugh and laugh for two reasons.

First: If there is a God, God probably does hate flags. They're man-made symbols of man-made definitions that men use man-made tools to defend against other men. If I were God, I would hate that too. Alternatively, maybe God feels about flags the way I do about MySpace and Facebook: we know they exist, we know they're REALLY important to some people, but God and I *just* don't get them.

Second: I like puns, and this is a Fred Phelps-related pun. So it makes me giggle. Phelps probably really does hate the flag, too, since he's doing that thing where he and his nephews picket servicemen's funerals. And they chant and are horrible. And then the Hells Angels come and rev their motors to drown out the chanting. And the Phelpses get louder. And the motorcycles get louder. And, and...And then everybody takes off their chaps and has a Biker/Twink gaygay bubble party! Yay!

When I hear about Phelps and crew, I again feel that I must be missing something. Surely, they can't be talking about me...I am unbelievably non-threatening. Impotent even, and yet some folks must feel that I play a role in some coming biblical doom (In the movie version, I play Locust Number 67,531,933,012. It's a speaking part. I say "Bzzt. Bzzt!" It was only a few moments, but I created this whole character who pupated in a small town, where nobody really understood him, he was the loner who didn't like to swarm...).

And I'd just like to say: if there's doom comin' baby, we're all standing here together. And if you fall and writh in your hate and your fury, I ain't going lower to mourn...I got fifty more o' you at home, and tonight, we're having us a bubble party!