Posted in Almost Dorothy, Characters, Culture Clash, The Mother, Themes

Dear Tim Hardaway

For Hamid, an Iraqi “victim of a wide-reaching campaign of extrajudicial executions, kidnappings, and torture of gay men that began in early 2009.” Human Rights Watch Report, “They Want Us Exterminated”

You know, I hate gay people, so I let it be known….I don’t like gay people and I don’t like to be around gay people. I am homophobic. I don’t like it. It shouldn’t be in the world or in the United States. —Tim Hardaway, Former NBA Basketball Star, Miami Heat

You know, I hate basketball players as much as you hate fags, and I let it be known. I don’t like men who play with balls (except tennis players) because they play with balls with other men which, to me, is so gay in a literally gay sense. I love Nadal and Novak Djokovic though. I also love Martina Navratilova and the film Space Balls. I wouldn’t mind if the aforementioned were or become gay one day like Martina. Not that I’m gay, at least not yet.

I really don’t hate ballplayers but I feel like I should. Nina Simone says I don’t. “There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says. Even though Nina is still dead she still communicates with aliens via the youtube. I have her in my telescope. She has me in her throat. “I still ain’t got no money,” she says. “But at least I got you, sister. They just ain’t got no class, baby. Give ’em a hug in the end. Show ’em what you got then walk away.”

I’m showing you what I got Tim Hardaway. (See image to your right.)

Tim, I don’t don’t like basketball players and basketball shouldn’t be played in the world or in the United States, except maybe France perhaps, which is neither the world nor the United States. I hate basketball haters and people who hate to play with balls or pig skins.

Dear Tim Hardaway, I’ve got lots of love for you but not your kind of sportsmanship. I know you must have trouble getting a hard-on in the locker room, poor thing, but it’s ok. If you can’t, I won’t mind. You’re not my type anyway. Mom would love your number and a key to your heart by the way. She’s into sports and the power of the id.

Anyway, I don’t hang out in locker rooms or spaceships, I’m too young. I don’t even like sci-fi or loony tunes, which is why I’m afraid of Kansas and the inevitable tornadoes to come.

The Inevitable Tornadoes To Come:

It is after midnight and I just read the testimony of Hamid, a gay Iraqi boy whose boyfriend was kidnapped and murdered (his penis cut off and tossed in the trash) by anti-gay forces in Iraq who may or may not have been sanctified by religious elements in Kansas, or Sadr City. The distance between Kansas and Sadr City shrinks, religion and murder celebrated as yin and yang, piety and the promised land vs Babylon and Boogeymen. Sometimes I wonder if Tim Hardway would survive in Kansas in the halls of Westboro Baptist Church.

Tim, this is what I have to deal with. I wonder if I would survive in Sadr City or Kansas with my red shoes and my penchant for dramatic wigs. I don’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend but I have a concept of genitals and believe in the power of words. I also believe in the power of bacon double cheese burgers. I have no car, no sword. Just horns and wings and a desire to crash and burn in peace.

“We’re not in f-ing Kansas anymore,” mom laughs, stupid woman with holes in her pantyhose. She can’t believe the story I tell her about Hamid and his boyfriend’s private parts. Hamid claims that being gay is worse than being a used battery you buy at a swap shop. Mom says that’s how she feels working at the bar at the swap shop. Being a basketball star must feel like you are the center of the swap shop universe.

Mom pulls one leg of her pantyhose off after the other then pulls one leg over her face. Smiles. Points her trigger finger at my Netherlands.

“Stick ’em up, girl. Spread ’em.” Before I spread, she shoots me mid eagle. “Pow.” Right in the you know what. Where it all begins and ends my friends. “That’s how they’ll treat you in the real world”, she said. “Or something like that.”

I never had a chance, nor would I ever in Kansas or Iraq, in front of a firing squad of moms or Westboro Baptist or Muqtada al Sadr. Rifles. Buckshot. Tiny Tims. Tim, you are lucky you were born on the other side of disaster in a century where humans revolve around NBA death stars and flying pigs. Imagine if everything revolved around me. Red shoes. Jabberwocky. Lunar landings. Yellow brick roads. Everything would be just fine between you, me and Hamid. We’d talk shop. Shoot hoops. And bury Hamid’s boyfriend in peace.

Hugs & Kisses,

Almost Dorothy


I'm not real, but I'm a writer.

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