Yesterday, the Out and About ladies (their word) dropped their line of Pride Month merch. The main Barstool twitter posted the video. And a slice of stoolies...evacuated. "Not my Barstool!" they raged. "Unfollowed," they cried. "I'm gonna kill myself!" we hoped.
You'll notice that effectively none of these comments comes from a real account. They're all anonymous, hidden, dare I say…closeted. For these heroes are bold enough to let the world know they will not stand for gay propaganda from their favorite company's twitter account; just not quite bold enough to attach their face to those opinions.
On and on it went: petulant whine after petty sulk after pouty fit after pathetic mope. It was like peering in at some flipped, homophobic version of a liberal arts college safe space forum, where the moderator was passing the mic to every student for a chance to voice their displeasure over… what was it again? What elicited this rage?
A colorful sweatshirt.
As Chappelle would say: that is a brittle spirit.
At some point, you have to laugh. Sure, there are some hateful, dark, homophobic replies in there. But the vast majority were just people announcing their retirement from the Barstool Twitter account. Why… why would someone feel the need to do that? That's a very minor moment in a person's life. The internet is such a mess that I don't even bother to unfollow accounts I don't like anymore; I just keep going with the tiniest flick of my finger. And the idea of not only unfollowing that account, but TYPING a comment to let everyone know my displeased plan to quit? That is so much more work than ignoring it. These people are going out of their way to look like cunts. They are, to borrow from the gays, outing themselves!
I'll never understand it.
Still, there will be those resolute few who stay true to their word. I've selected a few of these fallen heroes for a proper sendoff:
So long, John from the West Side. May your beard continue to grow such that children from all over the mall may finally buy that you're Santa. I'd say you've got two good winters left before one of those pipsqueaks alerts his dad to the curved candy cane he felt rise in your red velvet trousers. Enjoy the fresh air while you can. In the words of Rust Cohle, prison is hard on people who hurt kids. If you get the opportunity… sleigh, queen.
Credit where credit is due, Justin—I had no idea Pride Month was a coded trojan horse for demon. Just hadn't seen the words without a space before. Goddamn. Right in front of my eyes and I missed it. Though, by that same game, you could argue the coded message is actually P RIDEMON TH, as in "Ride, mon!" which might be the business slogan for a moped rental hut run by Jamaicans. Just turn those colors red, green, and yellow and you uncover that June is, in fact, a veiled marketing vehicle for those weed-smoking, extremely fast Olympians.
And nobody hates the Jamaicans! Right Justin?
Buy the Pride merch. Or don't. But remember: if you pass on a Pride sweatshirt but you don't let people know you're unfollowing the company… did it ever really happen?