What a day yesterday. I go out, meet a friend for lunch, come back and people are busy outing Condi Rice and her gal pal Randy Bean, with whom she owns a house in California.
Um… I don’t want her. I don’t want her to be a lesbian. I can think of a lot of creepy people I’d rather deal with than Condi Rice.
Now I know how gay men felt when Craig was outed. It’s awful to think someone imagines a gay man and has the image of Craig tapping his toes immediately come up. Condi Rice? Please, no.
How about Martina Navratilova? Good image. Or Jodie Foster. Oops. She’s “not” a lesbian. Sorry. Heck, I can even deal with Mary Cheney more than I can deal with Condi Rice.
At least Mary and her partner, Heather, are out as lesbians. They may feel basic LGBT civil rights are an issue for the little people to deal with, but they aren’t pretending to be housemates or hide behind an assassination attempt - it was a long time ago, Jodie.
While I have been an ardent supporter of Mike Rogers and his one-man crusade to out all hypocritical politicians who live one life and vote - with angry indignation - another way, I don’t want Condi outed.
I don’t want her. I don’t want anyone to think ‘lesbian’ and think of her. She might be a genius, she might be a gifted pianist, but she’s crafted, with our idiot president, one of the single worst set of foreign relation policies since Lindbergh’s anti-Semitic, isolationist policies in the early years of WWII.
So as far as I’m concerned, she can stay in her closet, and I’ll personally hold the door shut. Because like walking in on your parents having sex, it’s an image I don’t want to have embedded in my mind.