I Denounce Those Jorts on Behalf of God!

This is the work of a terrorist mentality. No consideration for anyone else’s beliefs. No respect for other universally and well-established views. Just force with coercive pressure to demand conformity… 

Only 1% of the population is trying to manipulate the 99%, and we are just letting it happen. 

—HOMOSEXUAL TERRORISM: Rainbow Perversion by Reverend Doctor David A. Swincer 

Diptyque candles, Aperol, and socks are passé!
Gio Ponti vases are a must!
Nate Berkus wills it!
We are the army of taste and poise!
Discernment is great!
Disdain is greatest! 

My name is Quinton Pryce Prissley, but my followers call me: “Haughty One.” I am the founder of the flamboyantly fanatical organization—al-Catty. We are a network of interior decorators, fashion designers, antique dealers, copywriters, and maitre d’s. We have been designated by the FBI as “a subversive dinner party.” We are radicals who always make time for a cheese course. We are aesthetic extremists. We will criticize, snub, bad-mouth your bangs with a  bullhorn. We will stop at nothing to eradicate Teva sandals, which look like the  skeletal remains of Birkenstocks.

We’ve mounted written and verbal attacks on macramé wall hangings, linoleum  flooring, washable blazers, and buffets. While we would never culturally appropriate the unseemly techniques, props, and styles of other terrorists—guns, bombs, bear spray, Confederate flags, graphically bankrupt posters, unkempt beards, split ends—we are not above glaring, wincing, recoiling, eye-rolling, and, in the case of confronting someone wearing a North Face fleece pullover while  eating a Hot Pocket, vomiting. (If I’m able to recover from my nausea quickly enough, I’ll point at the ersatz calzone and shout: “Microwaveable abomination!”)

This is a war and our assaults are carefully planned, highly organized, and meticulously worded, and, unlike other acts of terrorism, often followed by a post-blitz brunch. We’ve recruited and trained thousands of attractive, refined  zealots, uncompromising souls who, without hesitation, will descend upon an unsuspecting stranger and scream: “You are living your truth—and it’s hideous!”  

We are ideologues who imagine the removal of all deviant influences from New York City, such as tourists, Saint Patrick’s Day, Staten Island, Lexington Avenue, Jeff Koons, and White Claw—a mysterious beverage popular among women who’ve pre-ordered Emily Ratajkowski’s collection of essays. We believe that a secret heterosexual alliance is plotting to destroy élan. We believe that disparaging remarks are sanctioned by the spirit of Diana Vreeland. We oppose that which is regarded as “everyday wear.” We want to replace sartorial apathy with an uncompromising set of standards, a code known as: Chic-ri’a law. 

We are fervent champions of skincare, committed to ousting a regime of straight  men who’ve never once considered exfoliating. Those with clogged pores have too much power. These men are unbelievers, lacking reverence, ignoring the  divine benefits of both glycolic and salicylic acids, oblivious to under-eye creams and the word “noncomedogenic.” (I’ll refrain from discussing their untrimmed  nose hairs as it’s too enraging.)  

We will, of course, persist in persecuting the heterosexist bakers of this country, like Jack Phillips, owner of Colorado’s Masterpiece Cakeshop, who refused to create a wedding cake for Charlie Craig and David Mullins because of his  religious beliefs, but offered to sell the gay couple brownies, cupcakes, and lemon squares, as a sort of Christian compassion. Mr. Phillips, whose bigotry was declared constitutional by the Supreme Court of the United States, refers to  himself as a “cake artist,” which allows him to discriminate under the First Amendment because his wedding cakes are recognized as “artistic expressions.” But an impressively decorated custom-made cake is not art and here’s why:  

  • Art is not fattening. 
  • Exhibitions are not refrigerated. 
  • No one has ever said, “I wish I could fully appreciate your profound commentary, but I’m diabetic.”  
  • No one has ever bid on a cake.  
  • No one has ever asked about an artist’s work, “Was it made today? Is it fresh?”  
  • No one has ever said, “Her sculptures are provocative—and light and moist.”  
  • No one has ever proclaimed, “His use of fondant is reminiscent of Rodin.”  
  • If you major in Art History at Cornell, you will not study François Payard.  

Some identify our form of ridicule as politically motivated, while others describe it as “hilarious.” Some have labeled our snide comments, our barbed quips, our  influence and intimidation, as domestic terrorism, which is offensive. Our  particular brand of terrorism, I assure you, is not domestic, it’s imported—from  France.  

Occasionally for fun I’ll tool around New Jersey in my vintage “roulette green” convertible Karmann Ghia, searching for a victim—perhaps a corrupted woman  sporting a Juicy Couture cropped hoodie—and as I pass her I’ll bellow: “God  made Adam and Eve, not velour!” (This is what’s known as a drive-by slighting.)  

While our refusal to accept bias and intolerance as ecclesiastical freedom—along  with demanding legal protections under Title Seven of the Civil Rights Act of Nineteen Sixty-Four and our determination to challenge any business owner who refuses to serve or employ us—has been classified by many Christians as  “terrorism,” you ain’t seen nothin’ yet. We are no longer satisfied with mere equality. Our intention is to persecute and torment those who eschew couth,  panache, and chronic ennui in favor of unlimited soup, salad, and breadsticks. We are inflexible and unforgiving and ready to protest your dining room: “Hey hey,  ho ho, that Huffman Koos ‘Soprano Collection’ sideboard has got to go!” This philistine nation has much to fear as long as I and my polished disciples are outspoken, especially West Virginia where sleeves are considered an extravagance and citizens continue to face an epidemic of Caesar haircuts.  

Remember, heathens:  

We are all created equal—then some of us learn the words “jejune” and  “parvenu,” while others learn the words “Kohl’s” and “Febreze.”  ❏

Michael is a writer and maitre d’—not usually in that order—living on the deserted island of Manhattan, also published in Points in Case, Little Old Lady Comedy, and on Medium. His last piece in WryTimes was Undeniably Gay Enough to be Elected President of the United States.



7 Responses

    1. “Homosexuality is a doctrine, a way of life; it is a way of dismissing one’s brother-in-law solely based on his decision to buy three berets shortly before visiting Paris; it is forgiving Bette Midler over and over again throughout a performance of “Hello, Dolly!” because she is Bette Midler and she is infallible and I paid eight hundred and fifty dollars for this front row seat and I will not be disappointed!” — Quinton Pryce Prissley

  1. This satire was hysterical. Well written, you felt the person speaking was expressing his feelings as if he were in the same room.

    1. “Teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime; teach a man to make
      a reservation and he doesn’t have to fish. I recommend the Alaskan halibut at Le Territoire. Chef Pascal Charbonnier is a genius. A genius! Why fish? Fishing is a tedious activity enjoyed by heterosexual men who feel a sense of accomplishment and power after an unwitting striped bass fastens its mouth to a hook, attempting to enjoy an amuse-bouche of worm carpaccio. Do gay men fish? Yes—for compliments. If Ernest Hemingway had been a homosexual, his book would have been titled: ‘The Old Man and the Corner Banquette.'” — Quinton Pryce Prissley

    1. “God loves the heterosexual, but He hates the charmeuse waterfall window valances—and he loathes the chenille toilet lid cover.” — Quinton Pryce Prissley

  2. Quinton Pryce Prissley is way ahead of me. I have to admit I am not familiar with the references to Jeff Koons, White Claw or Emily Katajowski–but now I have some catching up to do. However, anyone who mentions Diana Vreeland is aces in my book! Seriously, Michael Vincent Mangano is so wonderfully dry and witty, I could drink a case of him.

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