For Monday cheer, we celebrate the hundreds of kazoo-playing, tutu-wearing "freaks, weirdos, misfits (and) people of good conscience” who attended a Richmond counter-party to drown out vitriolic Westboro Churchers protesting the existence of Danica Roem, Virginia's first openly transgender legislator and a heavy metal singer. The event, organized by metal frontman Randy Blythe, was part of a #WestboroBackfire campaign that raised over $34,000 for Roem's reelection. Her response to WBC's venom: "Meh."
As a freak, weirdo, misfit, and person of good conscience, I’m going to the thrift shops in town to look for a used tutu.
Sweetie! DO NOT forget to get a feather boa! MPTU tutu!
Which reminds of me of another deeply beloved Tutu and one of my favorite stories of all time told during the very difficult apartheid years, by the trans comedian son of a South African politician:
It came to pass that PT Botha (who as we all remember was recognized by his ever-present fedora perched on his balding pate), and Desmond Tutu found themselves at the same dock awaiting a fairy, I mean ferry, with which to cross the Rubicon. It soon arrived and the two seated themselves in the open on deck.
During the crossing the winds of change began to blow and blew the fedora from Bothaś head, spinning it out over the water and landing on the crest of a wave a league or two away. Noting this, Bishop Tutu arose from his seat, stepped over the gunwale, walked over to the hat, retrieved it and upon returning, gently replaced it on the head of his traveling companion.
The following day the South African press objectively reported that Desmond Tutu did not know how to swim.
One does not become enlightened by imagining figures of light, but by making the darkness conscious. Carl Jung