R.I.P. Him a New One
I have never and will most likely never dance on anyone’s grave. Death is by far the nastiest thing we as humans must endure — not our own, mind you, but the death of those we love. Grief is a nasty bastard, and for those in its vicious grip, my heart goes out.
But I also don’t think that one should never speak ill of the dead. Death is not a magical virus remover that somehow wipes away all wrongs and installs sainthood. Death is about the living, and for the living, those wrongs are still indelible. For example:
I listen to feminists and all these radical gals. … These women just need a man in the house. That’s all they need. Most of the feminists need a man to tell them what time of day it is and to lead them home. And they blew it and they’re mad at all men. Feminists hate men. They’re sexist. They hate men; that’s their problem.
If what Falwell believed is true, then there is a Big Man in a Big House telling him what day it is: judgment day. And all the Big Man needs to do is to point to that little placard on the pearly gates: No hate beyond this point! The Big Man will lead him home, indeed, with a simple pointing of His finger in another direction. As simple as that, not like the enraged, wrathful God Falwall depicted who sent AIDS to deal with his wrath against homosexuals, who felt mocked by the “Pagans, and the abortionists, and the feminists, and the gays and the lesbians … the ACLU, People for the American Way” who caused 9/11 to happen. Just a simple pointing of the fingers.
Fall well, Doctor.
