By Nicky Reid aka Comrade Hermit

Exile in Happy Valley

Once again, dearest motherfuckers, I feel obligated to reprise my roll as ‘that bitch.’ Do I really have to be the queer bummer who smashes the Buttigieg delusion? Are all the other faggot anarchists busy? Oh well, fuck it. Hand me my hammer and I’ll do what I do best, which seems to be pissing off other queer people by interrupting their increasingly statist pride parades with the stone cold inconvenience of reality. I’m really sorry darlings, but its time for some tough love. This hurts me more than it hurts you but hopefully it hurts Mayor Pete the most. Because a vote for Mayor Pete may be a vote for the first gay president, but it’s also a vote for assimilation. So, here we go.

I can pretty much sum up every Mayor Pete rally in a single synopsis. The queer wonder-boy takes to the stage looking like a barely pubescent Millhouse duded up for prom. He rolls up his sleeves and drifts into a listless barrage of centrist unity bromides and wishy-washy hopelandic vagaries that sound like twice nuked leftovers from Obama’s 2008 campaign. Just as his predominantly white, elderly, straight and middle class audience begins to drift mercifully into slumber, Pete wakes them with the only two cards he has left in his deck; “Oh, did I mention I killed brown people in Afghanistan and I take it up the ass…” A wave of oohs and awes brings the geriatric breeders back to life like Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction. A round of applause breaks out and Mayor Pete appears to be relieved. “A gay who kills Muslims? How novel!” “He speaks so well for one of them!”

Around the country, queer kids are getting emails and Facebook pokes from their grandparents, congratulating us collectively for producing a viable presidential candidate. We must be so proud. Maybe you are but I’m not. I wouldn’t even want a legit queer occupying that glorified porta shitter called the Oval Office, much less one who appears to have been raised by neoliberal wolves. Pete Buttigieg may be gay but he is not one of us. Pete is more vanilla than most heterosexuals. He’s the kind of queer you bring home to mom instead of your black-bear boyfriend to make your rejection of her suburban values more palatable. He’s the kind of queer who tops just so he doesn’t ruin the good linens. He’s the kind of queer who nags his boyfriend into a church marriage and a couple of adopted Guatemalans just so he has something to brag about to his soccer-mom bitch sister in the annual Christmas letter. He’s the kind of queer who has one trans friend just so he can tell his Lincoln Republican friends that he has one trans friend. He’s the kind of queer who really isn’t that queer at all. He prefers LGBTQ. He’s the new queer; domesticated, neat, house broken, a novel wonder of modern western civilization. “But he’s a sign of progressive inclusion, so what are you bitching about?”

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