The first issue the conservative looney birds who oppose gay marriage like to trot out is bestiality. “It’s a slippery slope” they say, while twirling their dastardly mustaches. “If we let the homosexuals marry, then what’s next? Men marrying children? Men marrying automobiles? Men marrying our sweet adorable KITTY CATS?!” OK, maybe that’s not their first argument. They’ll probably mutter about the sanctity of marriage a bit, then grumble that they never liked Will & Grace anyway, then finally get to people marrying their golden retrievers. Rand Paul did it just this week. The notion is ridiculous of course, because who the heck would want to marry an animal? I mean, we’re humans and they are beasts. We do math while they do poops in a plastic box. We have intellect, they have balls of yarn. We drink fine wines and spirits, they drink water from a bowl on the ground. The combination would be insane. Well I have something to tell you, Rand Paul, Rick Santorum, and Rush Limbaugh. If marrying an animal makes you crazy, then I am here to be committed, because I have already proposed. His name is Henry, he’s my girlfriend’s cat, and we are deeply and passionately in love. Our demands are this: marriage now, cat treats later. And maybe a scratching post.
Yes, it’s true. Henry. A dude cat. Meaning it would be both a gay marriage AND an animal marriage simultaneously, which should really piss off the fundamentalists. Our relationship has been a classic American love story however, and I’m certain even the most stoic, traditional heart would approve. It was a meet-cute from the start: I was nervous and over-eager, at my girlfriend’s apartment for the very first time. I complimented the decor, told her how fantastically it was all laid out, and then Henry appeared. He was soft, orange, and a few pounds overweight. In short: an absolute sex machine. I played coy, stealing quick pats here and there, careful only to glance into his big green eyes when he was looking away. I didn’t want to come on too strong, lest Henry think me some trashy little floozy. Also so my girlfriend didn’t, you know, think I was flirting with her cat. After an hour or two though, the tension became too great and I grabbed Henry up, rested him on my shoulder, and gave him a giant kiss and a hug. He bit me on the arm, ran into the closet, and it’s been true love ever since.
Truth be told, I’m not entirely convinced Henry is on-board for the nuptials, as our relationship is mercurial at best. If I am holding a can of turkey mush or fish flakes, he’s the Meg Ryan to my Tom Hanks. But if I’m trying to cut his toenails, things get real Alec Baldwin Twitter Rage real fast. I think he loves me, but it might be because my apartment has carpeting, air conditioning, and I tend to drop food when I eat. Henry likes the finer things in life, especially if those things involve discarded rotisserie chicken sitting atop a cuddly gray carpet. I’m fairly confident he’d make the trip down the aisle, but I might have to put a few slices of roast beef by the alter just to be sure.
Other than that, I think our wedding day would be just as classy and refined as any conservative soiree. The guest list would be small, as Henry’s only friends are filled with catnip, and if he thinks I’m shelling out $150 a plate so that Mr. Turtle and Mr. Banana can feel included he’s out of his mind. My girlfriend would be there of course, as well as my horrified friends and family. For dinner we would serve salmon, both grilled and in a can, and dessert would be carrot cake. Henry doesn’t care for it, but if I’m gonna marry someone who licks their own butt in public, I gotta get one or two perks thrown in just for me.
Lest anyone think I’m belittling the cause of gay marriage or the necessity of equal rights for all, I truly am not. It’s an issue that’s near and dear to my heart, and one I consider of desperate importance. I just hope that after every human is allowed to marry whoever they want, that maybe every marmalade feline will be able to as well. Our love is not perfect–sometimes there is yelling, or biting of my toes which I’m pretty sure he thinks are little chubby mice–but our love certainly is true. When the glorious day comes, please know you are all invited.