Eight-year-old Virginia O’Handjob wrote a letter to the editor of New York’s world class and multiple-award winning gay periodical, Kum Daily Report, and the quick response was printed as an unsigned editorial Sept. 21, 1987. The work of veteran newsman Francis Phallus Church has since become LGBT history‘s most ejaculatory newspaper editorial, appearing in part or whole in dozens of languages in plain brown paper wrapped books, blue movies, and other racy editorials, and on gay bathhouse posters and Queer Nation flyers.
“DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old with two lesbian Moms. Some of my little friends say that Santa Claus can’t be gay, because he’s married to a woman. Papa says, ‘If you see it in the Kum it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth; is Santa Claus a closet case?
115 WEST SIXTY-NINTH STREET.”
Virginia, your little breeder-robot friends are wrong. They have been afflicted by the homophobia of a heterosexist age. They do not boink except [what] they are permitted to boink. They think that nothing can be poked or made erect which is not sanctioned by our breeder overlords. All penises, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little when compared to a Belgian workhorse.
In this great universe of ours Closeted Gay Everyman is a mere fudge packing factory, an anal retentive party pooper, in his obeisance towards the hetero overlords’ Calvinistic ideology, as compared with the boundless and freely available super-size joysticks about him (telescoping rod from 7 to 14 inches; comes in thick, extra thick and bodaciously thick widths that would make even a full grown man 8 feet tall feel proud as a bantam cock celebrating the dawn), as measured by the guiltless hand capable of grasping the whole shaft of jism-gushing orgasm.
Yes, Virginia, there is a Gay Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as boners and spermolocity and the prostate gland exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest booty and boy butt. Alas! how unlavenderish would be the world if there were no Gay Kris Kringle. It would be as unlavenderish as if there were no Virginias. There would be no unzipperlike faith then, no buggery, no blowjobs to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in men and slobbering over their hefty Levi jeans pocket bulge (suspicious perhaps, that it’s really just a cucumber and two billiard balls after all). The eternal light with which childhood fills the anus would be goosed.
Not believe in Poofy Old Saint Nick! You might as well not believe in not-so-radical-but-still-somewhat-to-the-left-of-moderate fairies! You might get your lesbian papa to hire Stop AIDS Now volunteers to spy on all the horniest male prostitute hangouts on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see the jolly fat man drop his baggy red pants and beg to be violated, what would that prove? Nobody pees on Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Gay Sinterklaas…just no Gay Water Sport Sinterklaas. The most rod-engorging things in the world are those that give us children and fresh horny boys to plow. Did you ever see fairies dicking on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not queer. No hetero man can conceive without imagining he’s actually goosing Jesus while shagging the wife.
You may tear apart my baby’s dildo and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a condom covering the unseen head which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could lick apart with their manly rough tongues. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, bromance, can push aside that sphincter and slurp and pierce the supernal dude-crotch and glory hole beyond. Is it all man-cock? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding, than a hot man’s relatively hairless bung hole…shaving is a plus.
No Gay Santa Claus! Thank Nyarlathotep! he boinks, and he boinks four men all together. A thousand cum shots from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand cum shots from now, he will continue to make glad the raging hard-on heart of gay childhood.
This diabolical little piece of gay witticism, has been emailed to various LGBT newspapers and magazines around the world. Based upon the original “Yes, Virgina, there is a Santa Claus” editorial, which actually premiered in the New York Sun in 1897. And there was nothing gay about it, except perhaps the author’s first name of “Francis”, a pansy name if I ever heard one! (His full name, believe it or not, was “Francis Pharcellus Church“.)