From my understanding, there isn't really any intent for Phelps to have a funeral - they don't "believe in praising the dead" or something like that...
If they're looking to just push him off into a ditch or something, I'm free Sunday. Travel and food charges only; actual services functions are
gratuit.
There seems to be this desire to pretend at playing the better fellow by not dancing on this man's not-quite-grave. As an educated member of society, let me be among those who add their voices to this conversation to say:
fuck that. By all means dance on his grave. The pig is dead; well, good. It wasn't quite the way he
ought to have gone, sure - an unfortunate auto-erotic asphyxiation accident was certainly at the height of my hopes - but by all means, be glad that he's dead.
And it should also be said: however soon he went, it wasn't soon enough. Stupidity and evil breeds the same, by and large, and while I'm grateful enough that the goodly Reverend Phelps will now be pushing up "God Hates Fags" signs rather than carrying them while, you know,
breathing, it really would have been much more advantageous for his death to have come a lot sooner. In fact, I can think of no better time than, say, while carrying one of the aforesaid signs, or perhaps while sitting down to dinner with the family.
Imagine the
tableau: a raging circle of sign carriers (or however the hell they did the protests, maybe sitting in lawn chairs, I don't really know) marching around in front of a church, or a gay resource centre, their rail-thin steely-eyed patriarch at the forefront of the howling, shaking a bony fist into the winds of rationalism, thinning hair rippling in the breeze, his gray shirt-coat waving ever so slightly as he leans into that stiff remorseless wind, eyes alight with fanaticism - and then he suddenly shits himself and keels over on the very sidewalks funded by the government and society he hates.
There is a confused lull in the howling - is Fred all right? Perhaps he's only stumbled. Maybe he just needs some water. And then the sickly realisation hits them all at the same time that the scent of raw sewage rises out of his rapidly browning pantaloons that not only is Fred
not all right, but actually
completely fucking dead and that someone,
someone - and let's face it, it's going to be
you, Steve - now has to clean up his shitty, dead, already slightly sickly-sweet corpse. And one of them loses his or her lunch - maybe two, even. And then the camera pans back on the dejected, confused crowd. Yes, that's right, assholes: God's spokesman just copped it in an obvious and somewhat ironic way. What a shame. Maybe we should pick up a different hobby.
Dinner scene: same shit, same guy, but now it's in front of his sick, mad family. And the howling and screaming - Steve! call a doctor! You're nearest the portable! - and the women weeping and wailing as their beloved patriarch of paranoia is stone-cold dead and already starting to smell.
Thomas a Becket had his fucking brains mashed in on his own altar by four ass-heads and when he died it was said a horde of lice and vermin quitted his rotting body on the bier when it was touched. Thomas a Becket. So fuck the concern over their false, fascist sanctimony. I hope the parents of war dead his idiots called up return the favour and reduce his family and followers to tears
ever time they do it, although in all fairness this would be purely because under the laws of this benighted society they can't simply be taken out and shot.