So, Mr Fred Phelps is dead.
You heard me!
Dead.
Dead and gone to Heaven
Or is it...
HELL?
He was 84, which is quite a good innings, really.
God hates fags?
Fod hates gags more like!
But I hear some people say we should quite literally dance on his grave.
Not me, sir, no sirree.
First, I think this would be impractical.
And imagine if they said that about black people.
Me?
I shall now dust down my flugelhorn and mourn.
Yes MOURN!
In with anger, out with love.
Winky wanky wet liberal woo!
Patrick Smugwtit writes for The Guardian online, when not writing for the Mail On Sunday.
Friday, 21 March 2014
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The problem is that those saying we should dance on his grave aren't those directly affected by Phelps. I think that to celebrate death is fundamentally wrong-relief, a sense of good riddance? OK, I get that. Now it is entirely understandable that those Phelps tormented forget this core value, I get that and wouldn't criticise them. But those not directly affected haven't got the excuse of forgetting this core, human value. Frankly, they are just wankers jumping on somebody else's bandwagon. Not as despicable as Phelps, obviously, but despicable all the same.
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