Things the Southern Baptists Dislike Most About Gay Pride at Disney World

1. Evil Queen in Snow White played by Dennis Rodman.
2. The libeling of a fine Negro man (“He’s almost one of us”) like Charlie Pride.
3. Gipetto dressed Pinocchio in a “wood” tight leather outfit, gave him a pouty look, and a yearning to dance on Broadway.
4. Pirates of Caribbean made victims “mince” the plank.
5. Donald Duck spends way too much time with his nephews Huey, Dewey and Louie.
6. That new attraction, “Bath House Land”
7. In the Presidents Hall of Fame, it’s totally disgraceful that Richard Nixon speaks with a decided lisp.
8. Adult video, “Mickey and Goofy Play Choo-choo Train.”
9. “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride” does not involve any sort of vehicle, just a Budweiser-bloated bull dyke frog.
10. New 8th dwarf: “Fruity”
11. Ellen Degeneres’s Fairy Godmother is over-the-top.
12. Robin Hood constantly refers to his Merry Men as “The Boys in the Band,” many of whom are played by members of The Village People.
13. “Long” John Silver is overexposed (if you know what I mean).
14. Vile spectacle of Uncle Remus accidentally “Zipping his Doo Dah.”
15. At Space Mountain, many of the guides kept their “pocket rockets.”
16. Michael Jackson singing “It’s a Small World.”

Roach on the wall

October 1999
Roach on the Wall
By Ravenel Roach and Bob Coskrey

Well, this is my first article for “East Cooper Monthly.” I have been reading some of the back issues, so I could get a geel for it, kind of get an idea of what these people are trying to say. Finally, about 20 issues later, I have concluded that if the inpatients of a mental institution—let’s just use that group from “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest” for mental imagery purposes—were to publish a paper, it would probably bear a remarkable resemblance to the “East Copper Monthly” (and I mean that in a good way of course), though the former get its issues out on the street in a more timely manner due to a slight number’s superiority in obsessive-compulsive staff members.

Therefore, figuring that if the readership really enjoys this rag, they must be at least equally as loony as the staff, I thought I might as well follow the “E. C. Monthly’s” writers’ preparation regimen: Stay off any anti-psychotic medication the week prior to beginning an article. Unfortunately, thought, being a roach, I don’t need to take any mood-altering drugs. Despite the unrelenting and unspeakable oppression by you so-called humans for over 4.5 million years, we roaches are a very well adjusted species.

Enough! The readers are asked to disregard the last paragraph, just as you juries do when instructed by your reality-challenged judges.

Having observed over the years that you guys are so abysmally insecure that you really get off (sometimes literally) over learning about the humiliating and sometimes painful misfortunes of the rich and powerful, I have decided to give you not what the doctor or Nurse Ratchett ordered, but rather exactly what you want, in the form of excerpts from the entertainment column of our own daily newspaper, the “Roachly Reader.” There will be quotations from our eminent critic, Rex Roach, taken from his column, “Roach on the Wall,” based on the often quoted human phrase, “If only I were a fly on the wall,” but in this case, strengthened by our supernatural ability to read negative thoughts (see my interview in “East Cooper Monthly” August ’99 issue). Needless to say, the world is teeming with Rex’s correspondents, so we can dig up dirt on anybody, anywhere, and anytime we feel like it—which is frequently. You people, especially the ones you worship as your icons and role models, are, euphemistically speaking, very interesting to say the least, and you have the nerve to call us disgusting.

In this article, we will reprise a conversation our roach on the wall correspondent overheard recently at the home of Warren Beatty and his actress wife Annette Bening, where the former was elaborating on his decision to become a presidential candidate:

Warren: I am very concerned about the disgrace Bill Clinton has heaped upon the office of the presidency.

Annette: Yes, I am afraid he has left an indelible stain, figuratively and literally.

Warren: (flashing mild anger in his Beatty eyes) This is not a time to make cute remarks, Annette.

Annette: (consoling) Okay, okay, but I thought you went along with most of his policies and felt that his personal life, no matter how morally revolting, was irrelevant to his being qualified for the job.

Warren: That’s true for the most part, except for one thing that really bothers me…(long pause)

Annette (finally getting tired of Warren to finish his thought): And-that-one-thing-is? (Thinking: My God, it’s no wonder no one invites you to do talk shows.)

Warren: It’s…it’s…it’s his grotesque taste in women, or better, his taste in grotesque women. Just look at that gaggle of gruesome political groupies—or better, gropies—that bevy of big haired trailer trollops, and assorted bow-wows who’ve been lighting up his Tiparellos over the years. What must the American people think?

Annette: About his indiscretions? Absolutely nothing, just like us.

Warren: No, you’re not getting the point. The part about Americans accepting his moral lapses-

Annette (interrupting): You mean collapses.

Warren (continuing, irritability once again showing in his eyes): -is a given. The crisis is that they are mortified that their elected leader would have such atrocious taste in the women he chooses to have affairs with. JFK set the standard with Marilyn Monroe, Judith Exner, and others of that ilk, but this guy hasn’t even come close. You see, if you will allow me to speak briefly in Sternian (Howard) parlance, both guys and chicks dig a guy who can score with hot broads, whether he’s married or not. When Billy the Boinker-

Annette (interrupting) Oinker Boinker.

Warren (continuing): -When Bill the Oinker Boinker ran the anchor leg of the great presidential philanders’ race, he fumbled the baton hand-off from JFK.
Annette: Maybe he was just confused or perhaps he was simply the victim of one of JFK’s practical jokes when the presidential prankster stuffed his baton down his pants, prompting the Boinker to respond at the crucial moment, “Jack, is that your baton or are you just happy to see me?”

Warren: Whatever. He’s no JFK, that’s for sure.

Annette: Okay, we’ve established that already. Now what?

Warren: Now, I announce as a candidate for the presidency.

Annette (dumbfounded): You what? Have you been drinking that funny tea with Shirley again?

Warren: No, dear, not at all. Listen to me. What this country needs is a-

Annette (interrupting): Good five-cent cigar, but they’re not going to smoke any of his.

Warren (continuing): If I may continue – president with a proven record of amorous conquests of world class babes. And that man, my dear, is none other than yours truly. I’ve got a record that nobody can top for the past 35 years, from Natalie Wood to Candace Bergen to Julie Christie. I could list 20 or 30 more of them, if I wanted to, right off the top of my head.

Annette (thinking: Which one?): Don’t bother, why don’t we just record the names you always shout while we’re making love?

Warren: Oh, for “Heavens’ Gate”—I mean sake—that’s all in the past. Nobody’s better than you, honey. After all, you’re the one I married.

Annette (thinking: Yeah, because nobody else was interested in you. Who else would put up with a used up Lothario who wears Depends under his Bikini underwear.): Okay, you may be right, I guess I could put up with the rehashing of all your old affairs, since it is, after all, for a worthwhile cause.

Warren (a bit meekly): Well, my little Benin Cookie, that’s not quite the whole plan.

Annette: Let me guess. Charlie Sheen’s going to be your running mate?

Warren: No, but that’s a damn good idea. Actually, what I’m thinking is that my sexual resume, though impressive, reads like ancient history. It needs to be updated.

Annette (affecting a Clint Eastwood glare): Meaning what?

Warren (unconsciously making himself smaller and blinking nervously):

Meaning I-ah-need to have a – an affair. I can’t smugly live off the glories of my past. The American electorate needs to know that I still have what it takes.

Annette: And just what patriotic prostitute will you be enlisting?

Warren: It will be nothing like that. Actually, I’m thinking more along the lines of simultaneous affairs with 3 (thinking: Lucky) women, but not just any women. They would need to be beautiful and classy. Specifically, I’m thinking about Gweneth Paltrow, Cindy Crawford, and Halle Berry. I know it’s a lot to ask of you, but I won be going this for any base, libidinous reason. You and I will be doing this for our country. With the knowledge that their leader is a discriminating stud, once again, Americans can walk around with their heads held high (thinking: As will I, heh, heh.) Well, what do you think, honey? It’s a chance to serve your country.

Annette: Right, Mr. Lion King. I serve and you service. You’re going through a middle-age—or rather old-age—crisis, and is simply an elaborate borderline psychotic scheme to satisfy your needs. There’s a better chance of a studio coming to you and begging you to make Ishtar II than there is of my agreeing to this screw ball idea.

Warren (sheepishly): But you’ve got it all wrong, Bunny butt-

Annette (interrupting): I’ll tell you what, why don’t you get Shirley to channel up some of your old dead girlfriends through Hillary, then you can do your public service bit by satisfying that poor soul, and I’ll go take care of Billy the Oinker Boinker personally? Not to brag, but I think his liaison with me will be sufficient to elevate the prestige of the office to the JFK standard. Now, you get back in your office and start sublimating some of that pent-up sexual energy into doing something rational like making a new movie. In fact, how about one about your and Hillary’s affair. Your trysting place could be Blair House, the vice-president’s home, and then you could call it “The Blair Bitch Project.”

Warren (patronizingly): Honey, I get your point loud and clear. Actually, I think an affair wh Gwyneth along will suffice. (Suddenly, Annette grabs a nearby Tiffany lamp and hurls it violently. It smashes on the wall next to Warren’s head.)

Warren (frightened): Wha--?

Annette: Oh, calm down, you big fruit. There was a roach right there on the wall. You know how I hate those damn things.

Warren (still a bit anxious): Well, you missed. He just disappeared into an air conditioning register. AT least, it wasn’t a fly on the wall. That’s probably where the tabloids get all their information.

Annette (displaying a dominating Hillarian glare): Why don’t you call Shirley now and get things started, dear?

Warren: Right away, baby (thinking as he fumbles with the phone: Just my luck, she’ll only be able to channel Eleanor Roosevelt).

Suddenly, a stern female warden-like voice thunders through the receiver: Hillary Rodham Clinton speaking.

Warren slowly begins a fetal fold, as he feels his manhood shrinking. He’s only able to manage a tiny gurgle.

Hillary: Monica, if that’s you, you bloated bimbo, you stay out of my life ‘til I become a senator. After that, you can have the whoring hillbilly!

A click is heard on the other end.

In Quest of a High Style

I have lived in Charleston all my life, and though it both galls and embarrasses me to admit it. I have never achieved that certain recognition that all Charlestonians of even borderline eminence must luxuriate in before they pass through that Great Sword Gate in the sky.

Yes, despite feeling like a guy coming out of the closet at a teamster meeting, I will confess that I have never once appeared in the “High Style” section of the Post & Courier. And until I do so, no matter what I have accomplished—“Honorable Mention in the Most Beautiful Baby Contest” 1942, High School of Charleston “King of Hearts” 1956, or third place “National Association of Free Newspapers” feature article category 1992—my legacy will still be shallow and pathetic.

And so, after finally deciding that I must do all that’s possible to ensure that my progeny does not inherit this worthless estate of affairs, I came up with a plan:

Since obviously I am never going to be on the guest lists of any events that warrant “High Style” attention, I will have to have my own event. Therefore, I called the editor of “High Style,” An Glo-Saxon, to find out just what I needed to do to make my even worthy of their lofty consideration:

Me: Good morning, Ms. Glo-Saxon, my name’s Bob Coskrey and I’d like to have “High Style” cover a little even I’m putting on.
AGS: Bob Coskrey, you’re the one that writes those revolting article for East Cooper Monthly.
Me: I was thinking of having a Fourth of July party that would unite all of eh citizens of the Great Charleston Area, especially after the divisive Confederate Flag issue and the general lack of civility between various political, religious, and ethnic groups. I’m simply going to call it “America’s Birthday Party.” And I’ll invite everybody: all minority groups, whites, liberals, conservatives, gays, Christian Coalitionists, ACLU members, NRA members, pornographers, politicians, South-of-Broaders, Goose Creekers, flag haters and supporters, and on and on.
The theme will be: WE may hate and disrespect one another, and behave like total a-holes for 364 days of the year, but for this one day, let’s all just get s-faced, eat hamburgers and hot dogs, and pretend we actually like one another.
AGS: Well, it’s certainly a noble though, despite its rather crude manifestations.
Me: Yeah, I know all that, Ms. GS, but here’s the most important question: Will you cover it and will I get my picture in “High Style”?
AGS: Well, Bob, let’s answer it this way: I’ll give you our “High Style” qualifications criteria, and we’ll see if your ambitious little shin-dig meets them:
1. Unless it’s Kwanzaa, Cinquo de Mayo, or one of those other ethnic celebrations, there must be at least 75% WASPs to others ratio.
Me: Well, I certainly can’t guarantee that, especially when one of purposes is to promote cultural diversity along with unity.
AGS: We’ll consider your point, Bob, but let’s move on.
2. There must be at least one white female in attendance with the same Missy, Sissy or Muffy.
Me: Actually, I think I may be able to arrange that.
AGS: They will have to have either ID or someone of unimpeachable character (more likely of the same background of course) who can verify the name.
Me: Well, that might be harder, but I’ll do my best. What else?
AGS: Spoleto is over, there can be no more than 1% of gay attendees.
Me: I don’t know. How can you always tell who’s gay and who’s not?
AGS: Simple, you do the same thing that the Republicans do at their conventions; random lisp testing.
Me: What?
AGS: You stop the guys and ask them to say the word “fabulous.” If they lisp it, you simply ask them to leave. Oh, you may miss a few of the Rock Hudson or Raymond Burr types, but at least you’ll get the “flamers.” In fact, that’s what the Republicans call it: “Putting out the flames.”
Me: I’ll do what I can, but I want all groups represented. What else?
AGS: 3% Swarthies limit.
Me: Swarthies?
AGS: Swarthies. You know, Mediterranean types, Italians, Greeks, French, plues the Spanish ones. The Spoleto waiver has been rescinded for them, too.
Me (noticeably frustrated): Okay, okay.
AGS: There must be at least 15% of the people with the last name of a Charleston street.
Me: Translation, please.
AGS: Funny, you don’t seem as dense in your articles. Do you have a ghost writer?
Me: Of course not, but having never experienced the intellectually stimulating environment of a “high styler,” I am naturally a bit slow on the uptake.
AGS: I understand perfectly, Bob. What I meant by people with the last name of a Charleston street were, you know, Rutledge, Huger, Maybank, and Ashley, and so on got it?
Me: Sure, but with all due respect, why?
AGS: It’s just a whim of ours. Indulge us, unless you think you have a choice.
Me: All right, what else?
AGS: There has to be at least one guy in a white linen or seersucker suit, wearing a bow tie.
Me: Once more, I feel an irrepressible, but perhaps foolhardy, urge to ask why.
AGS: Certainly understandable, Bob, but again, if you have to ask why, then obviously you just don’t get I – the High Style Philosophy—and I will be wasting both of our times if I try to explain it. It would be like me asking my father why every New Year’s Eve he gets drunk, takes off his pants, sticks on a fireman’s helmet, and put out the fire in the fireplace “naturally” yelling “Hose Man to the rescue!”
Me: Okay, I’m will to accept a lot in life, as pitiable as it is. Anything else?
AGS: Yes. There has to be at least one glassy-eyes local celebrity with his arm around an attractive female who’s not related to him.
Me: Okay, and I won’t ask why this time.
AGS: But, for once, you should have, because the answer is, “It’s just the Jerry Springer in us,” tee hee hee.
Me: Hey, now I get it.
AGS: How quaint.
Me: Okay, we must be getting near the end.
AGS: Yes, for you, Bob, perhaps. (Snicker)
Me: Oh, you are way too much for me, Ms. Glo-Saxon. May I be so bold as to call you Ann?
AGS: The answer to that question is that it depends on whether your supreme quest for “High Style” status is successful or not, Bob.
Me: Thank you for allowing me a secondary life goal almost as lofty as the first.
AGS: Does the term sychophanticide mean anything to you, Bob? Never mind. Your next to the last criterion is, of course, that everyone, even minors (this is Charleston, after all) must have a mixed drink in his or her hand—whether they drink or not. Surely you are aware that this is a time-honored tradition of the Holy City, even among the ungentrified, such as yourself.
Me: Oh yeah, probably the best one of them all, Ms. Glo-Saxon, and one that I fervently support.
AGS: You know, Bob, occasionally, you display faint flashed of civility, if only for a few precious seconds.
Me: I’m unworthy of your flattery, Ms. Glo-Saxon, but shouldn’t we start the drum roll introducing the final qualification criterion?
AGS: Actually, a drum roll would be perfect, since this is the e I think you will really like, Bob. There will be absolutely no residents of Goose Creek or Ladson in attendance, and North Charleston residents can be present only in a menial or service capacity.
Me (beaming): Thank God for your common, I mean uncommon, sense, Ms. Glo-Saxon. When I included them, I was obviously stretching the limits of multiculturalism. But what if some of them are wily enough to disguise themselves (though this is most unlikely)?
AGS: Simple, Bob. Set up a clogging demonstration. Anybody who watches it gets kicked out. It works every time.
Me: Suddenly, I feel very differently about you, Ms. Glo-Saxon. There, you see, there is always a common ground. Sometimes, one just has to blow away the leaves of hate and misunderstanding. Do you know the words to “Cumbaya”?
AGS: Isn’t that one of those Kwanzaa songs?
Me: Oh, never mind. Did I pass or not?
AGS: I’ll be in touch, Bob. We have to do some perfunctory background checking, too.

And so, I sit in agony, awaiting Ms. Glo-Saxon’s (or Ann’s) call, praying that her relentless investigation into my past will not somehow uncover a young writer in 1979 watching a clogging contest at the Coastal Carolina Fair, purely out of idle, but innocent curiosity.