The O'Reilly Factor
Dear Mr. O'Reilly,
I'm afraid your recent show about pink-pistol-packing lesbian criminal gangs accomplished more harm than good. Indeed, the inability of your guest, Rod Wheeler, to provide even one example of lesbian criminal gang activity severely undercut his claims that they're a serious national problem.
It's a shame you blew your credibility by trotting out Wheeler on this subject, because I could have provided proof that such gangs really do exist. You see, I've lived it. I infiltrated the Amazons, one of the meanest lesbian gangs in Provincetown. Yes, I was a lesbian for the FBI and lived to tell about it.
It wasn't easy passing myself off as a lesbian. Although I often dress up in women's clothing on Lumberjack Night at militia HQ (the men love it), it's much harder to fool a gang of lesbians than a genepuddle of rednecks.
But I quickly leaned that "passing" was the least of my problems when I accompanied the ladies to a big sapphic gang conclave in Boston. It was huge. I hadn't seen so many lesbians in one place since my inner frenchman saw Ani Difranco at Summer Nights at the Pier back in aught one.
All the important lesbian gangs were there: the Punkchicks, the Turnbulls, the Softball Furies, the Lipsticks, the Roguettes, and, of course, the mighty Bunker Hill Riffs. They were all there to see Cyrilla, the Riff boss and the most charismatic leader ever to lead a lesbian gang since Lucky Lucinda united the five New York lesbian crime families.
And boy was Cyrilla on that night. The crowed feasted on her exhortations to come together and wrest control of the rackets from the Winter Hill Gang and the Patriarcha Family, and they nearly rioted after each of the many "can youuuuu digggggg ittttt" lines she employed as a kind of punctuation throughout her address.
But all that sisterhood quickly ended when the Roguette's leader, Lotharia, pulled out her pink pistol and shot Cyrilla. Stunned, the crowd fell silent and all eyes turn in the direction of the gun shot. Lotharia took advantage of the momentary confusion, and pointed toward us, shrieking: "It was the Amazons. I saw them. I saw them shoot Cyrilla."
The crowd closed in on us, grabbing our leader, Cleo, and pummeling her to the ground. There was nothing we could do except to abandon her and save our own lives.
We ran and ran and ran, until the hell in Boston Commons was long gone, replaced by the crumbling brick of well-landscaped but decrepit tenements. We had stumbled into a lesbian ghetto, a slum filled with immigrant lesbians, women who gave up everything to leave their comfortable rural homes and start all over in the city, the only place they felt they could live honestly as women who loved women.
The neighborhood, like any small close-knit community, knew immediately that it had been violated by outsiders. We had barely caught our breath before its self-appointed guardians, the Little Orphan Annies, surrounded us, demanding that we remove our colors. They were a rather pitiful bunch in their soiled red tank tops and greasy red hair by Miss Clairol, but we were few and they were many. That meant we were in a world of poo poo.
Swan, our War Chieftress, refused to comply. We were Amazon's dammit. We wouldn't remove our colors for such pitiful lesbian gansters. That seemed to take the fight out of Sally, their leader. We were a small group, but we were obviously a few levels higher in the sapphic gang hierarchy than these low-budget lesbians.
But then, Mercy stepped in. We've all met at least one Mercy in our lives. You know the type, a hot little lipstick lesbian who loves to stir up trouble. She went straight to work on Sally, not only questioning her ability to lead, but also her courage and worst of all, her desirability as a woman.
Sally became angrier and angrier as Mercy's taunts continued. We knew we were in a lot of trouble if we didn't act fast. Fortunately, Sacajawea, our token black sister who dressed like a native american, always wore a bottle of very volatile French perfume on a leather strap around her neck. She poured a little onto a piece of cloth she tore from Kahlo, the graffiti artist's, skirt and stuffed it into the bottle. She then hurled her improvised molotov cocktail in Sally's direction, thus providing us with a few moments of confusion in which we made our escape.
The next 36 hours were pretty much the same, but worse. You see, by then, every lesbian gangster in Massachusetts was looking for us. Riff had placed a price on our heads for shooting Cyrilla. The buzz-cutted Turnbulls found us first and almost ran us over with their fleet of Subaru Outbacks.
Then it was the Softball Furies, crazy lesbians who wore rollerskates. They looked like banshees in their overly made-up faces and softball uniforms. They beat Athena to death with their aluminum bats.
We lost both Sacajawea and Kahlo to The Lipsticks. They though they were going to get some until they saw these chick's were packing heat.
The whole journey back to Provincetown was like that, a day and a half of non-stop gangbanging, until finally, we made it home.
Then, just as I was using a bogus excuse to get away and make a report to my FBI control agent, Lotheria and the Roguettes pullrd up in a beat-up old hearse. We immediately scattered into the antique shops that line Provincetown's streets, but that didn't deter Lotharia. She and her gang continued to drive slowly down the streets, clinking empty fingernail polish bottles together in a rythmic, yet nerve-rattling, cadence. "Amazons," she called out in a soft screech as she drove back and forth, "come out and play-ay; Amazons come out and play-ay, Amazons..."
Eventually, her patience paid off when she finally cornered us at Whole Foods. Slowly, she lifted the same pink pistol she had used to kill Cyrillia. But then suddenly both gangs were surrounded by Rills. They had learned the truth and had come to reek a terrible vengeance on the Roguettes. They descended on Lotharia's gang quickly, beating them mercilessly with thir trademark giant dildoes, much like the dildo you used, Bill, to pleasure yourself all those times you called Andrea Mackris.
That's my story. That's the story you should've run. Maybe you'll consider inviting me onto your show the next time you address the growing national problem of pink-pistol-wielding lesbian gangsters.
Gen. JC Christian, patriot