Conversion Perversion

Conversion therapy, here I come.  Using taxpayer’s dollars to fund my rehabilitation is a ducky idea, about as useful as building that wall, or fence, or ditch, or failing all that, digging a small hole with a bent spoon in the desert. 

Speaking of which, perhaps wandering for the next 40 years across a barren wasteland (unaffected by even an iota of climate change) is a viable option for me, since I’m also a “renegade Jew,” with a terrible sense of direction and I don’t think I can possibly alter my genetics, though apparently I can choose to change my lesbian lifestyle.

I may just have to take the word of Trump’s new domestic policy advisor Ken Blackwell who declared, “…And I think you make good choices and bad choices in terms of lifestyle. Our expectation is that one’s genetic makeup might make one more inclined to be an arsonist or might make one more inclined to be a kleptomaniac. Do I think that they can be changed? Yes.” 

Huh, forgive me but I find this all a bit confusing. Do I need to start lighting fires and stealing stuff immediately, taking a lesson from those Black Lives Matter people in Oakland (the nerve of those people holding hands around some lake), or should I just hold off a few months until Steve Bannon, the Goebbels to Trumph’s Hitler, fully implements his prime choice white meat nationalist agenda?  

But I digress. Back to this plan for my conversion therapy.  What’s that going to look like? 

Do I pick an ice-pick lobotomy, or aversive treatment like a good shocker-roo to my lady parts as I look at a photo of Cate Blanchett or Serena Williams (those nasty nasty women)? I could take nausea-inducing drugs, though I have been nauseous since 11/9, and that hasn’t seemed to do much to deter me. 

And how very important all this is in light of such trivial issues as restoring those non-existent manufacturing jobs to the heartless heartland, or stopping the well meaning insurance monopolies from raising rates to cover those pesky out of control healthcare costs.  And let’s not worry our pretty little heads about that dashing Vladimir Putin since he’s such a good buddy of the Fuhrer elect. 

I mean I am such a persistent threat, a soon to be social-security risk, all 5’2” inches of my 61 year old being, living with my lesbian wife of 32 years in our Marin County home, raising a Bernie supporter, who can sing the entire score of Hamilton by heart.  I must be stopped before I harbor 3 million illegal criminals and bad Dreamers in our downstairs apartment. Scary scary scary. 

I am working frantically on how to utter my own brand of unintelligent sentences, speaking directly into the camera sporting an orange patina, and then adding assurances like, “I’m really good at construction,” “It’s it’s where it’s at,” and “really great,” everythings.  Maybe that will save my unchristian perverted soul, or at least distract a few people while I pack my bags and flee to, hum, to and where would that be? I know, Candyland.  Your turn.