Tinky Winky, Mr. Rogers, and evil

Tinky Winky, the ex-gay teletubby, here. It's been awhile since I last posted, but I felt I had to respond to Fox's charge that Mr. Rogers was evil.

I knew Mr. Rogers, or I think I did. You see, like everyone else in children's programming at PBS, I was required to attend his weekly staff meetings. But the thing was he never spoke at them, so I really can't gauge how evil he may have been.

King Friday the XIII always led the meetings from his perch on Mr. Rogers' hand. I can tell you this. Friday was evil, darkly evil. Everyone was frightened of him. Rumor was he had killed The Friendly Giant and ate his liver.

King Friday made us all do things, terrible things. For instance, he got Henrietta Pussycat hooked on smack and he'd withhold her fix until she'd curse God in front of us. I can still hear her cries today:
Meow meow junk please meow meow. Please please meow please. Meow, I'm jonesing meow bad meow meow. OK, meow, suck it, Jesus, meow meow. Fuck, meow, your immaculate, meow ass, meow meow. Meow smack, meow meow now, please!

His treatment of that poor, strung out pussycat was freaking horrible, but nothing like what did to the muppets from Sesame Street. He hated them, especially Bert and Ernie. He was constantly humiliating them by making Ernie watch while the Snuffalufagus violated Bert. It was a horrendous thing to see. Bert, crying, unable to offer assistance as the Snuffalufagus sodomized his beloved Ernie. The Snuffalufagus's maniacal laugh still haunts me today.

So that's all I can add. I think Fox was pretty close to getting it right. King Friday was evil incarnate, and he did live on Rogers' hand.

Commenter Strike!

I have a guest blogger tonight. Many of you may recall the heartfelt eulogy for Jerry Falwell he posted here awhile back. He's had it a little rough lately. Please be kind in your comments.
--The General

Many of you remember me. My name is Tinky Winky. I was the star of a very successful television show, the Teletubbies. At the time, I thought was living a dream. I had everything a felt-skinned mutant could want: fame, money, magic dust, constant sex, and 15 sports, 11 shopping, 12 movie, and 37 hard-core porn channels available on a television embedded in my stomach.

That all came to an end when Jerry Falwell outed me as a homosexual. It was just too much for PBS to handle. Sure, they had no problem promoting a kids TV star who had an antenna growing out of his head and a digital tuner shoved up his ass, but the minute someone points out I'm carrying a purse, I'm out.

I know it sounds like I'm a little bitter, and I suppose that maybe I am, but, in the balance, I think it was probably a good thing. If I had continued down the path I was traveling, I may have ended up like my co-star Po, playing Star Trek clips on my gut at conventions in order to feed a raging smack habit.

Instead, I found Jesus, overcame homosexuality, and eventually started a ministry offering reparative therapy to other children's television stars. It's been a very successful ministry. So far, I've liberated 13 stars from the clutches of the homosexual demon, including Lenny the Shark (twice), Squidward, Bob the Builder (two or three times a month), Dora the Explorer (3 times), and that carrot from the Vegetales. But you wouldn't know about it, because the homosexual-controlled media refuses to report it.

I hoped I could do an end run around the media by telling my story in Atrios's comments. I figured my comments were just so brilliant and my cause so right, he'd have no choice but to reprint them verbatim on his front page. But that didn't happen. He simply ignored me. I suspect it's because he's a secret supporter of Bert and Ernie and their homosexual agenda. Heck, I wonder how long it'll be before Atrios is touting the stability of Bert and Ernie's decades-long relationship as evidence that love trumps plumbing, or at least implied plumbing.

We can't let Atrios and his ilk get away with it. They've neglected us for far too long. That's why I'm asking you to join me in a commenter's strike. Let's just see how long they can survive without our content.

A Eulogy for Rev. Falwell

The General welcomes a new guest poster tonight. I hope you will too.

Jerry Falwell saved me.

I didn't know I needed saving at the time. I had a top-rated television series, money coming out the wazoo, and the ability to show sizzling-hot porn on a video monitor I had mounted in my stomach. You can't imagine how popular that made me with the guys. Yes, I said guys. You see, my name is Tinky Winky, the formerly-purple teletubby, and I am a recovering homosexual.

I hadn't meant to become a friend of Dorthy's (or actually Dora's in my case). I didn't go looking for the demon of homosexuality; I was just trying to find a party.

You see, Dipsy, Po, the Sun Baby and I were attending our first children's programing convention. We were just kids then really, but we were cocky kids with a new, fantastically successful television show and we were willing to try anything. And try everything we did. I don't think Dipsy showed up for a single autograph session. He was far too busy talking any of a number of the ever present groupies into reorienting his antenna. Po and the Sun Baby might as well have ducked the signings too, Lord knows they were way too fucked up on smack to autograph pictures.
Me, I was constantly hungover from all the parties the other stars were throwing. It was at one of those parties I first heard sodom's siren call.

It started out innocently enough. I ran into Dora the Explorer and Velma from Scoobie Doo in the hotel bar. I tried to make small talk, hoping to pick one of them up, but they didn't seem interested until I showed them I could tune-in the College World Series of Women's Softball on my stomach--it's an old pick-up trick I must have used a thousand times. It seemed to work. They invited me to come up to their suite later to party.

Man, was I excited. A few months earlier, I was just plain old Tinky Winky, a lonely loaner TV at Jim's Television Repair in Elwood, Utah and now, here I was in a fancy hotel room in New York, polishing my picture tube in preparation for what I thought would be a threesome with Velma from Scooby Doo and Dora the Explorer. Unfortunately, I was sadly mistaken.

I tried to hide my disappointment when I entered the suite. Dora and Velma were not alone. The place was packed with stars, old and new. Bert and Ernie were there, trying to convince Squidward to join them in some mysterious activity. Josie was in the corner grooming one of the Pussycats. Spongebob Squarepants was grooving with Jughead. And Race Bannon from Jonny Quest was poking a finger into He-Man's chest as Dr. Benton Quest tearfully tried to intervene.

Suddenly, I felt a hand grabbing my ass, and turning around, hoping to see Velma or Dora, I was face to face with Bob the Builder, who quickly leaned forward and slipped me some tongue. I was surprised at first, then angry for a brief moment, and finally very excited as I found myself hungrily returning Bob's attention by twisting his screwdriver. Everything's a blur after that, except for the part that involved the Snuffleupagus and felching--you never forget something like that--but of one thing I was certain, I had been recruited into their lifestyle.

I lived that way secretly for years, always worried that Dipsy would learn about my dalliances and use that knowledge to move up to becoming the Teletubby who dances around the bunnies. Or worse yet, Po would wake up early out of his opiate-induced haze and realize why his mouth always tasted funny in the morning.

Then Jerry Falwell saw my purse. I'm surprised he was the first to notice it. I'd been flaunting it for over a year, perversely taking pleasure from the adrenaline buzz I received by risking exposure so blatantly. Of course he immediately went to press with the news, announcing it in the same magazine he used to expose the Bill Clinton's bloody, cocaine-fueled, rampage through Mena, Arkansas, during which he personally killed over 730 people with a pointed stick and an anvil.

Angry, I blackmailed the Celery Guy from the vegi-tales into giving me Falwells number and I called him (Oh the stories i could tell about celeryboy, the tomato, and Gumby's parties, but that's for another time; let's just say there's a reason Gumby's pony is called "Pokey"). Of course, I was very angry at Falwell, and I laid into him right away. Rev. Jerry didn't interrupt. He let me get it all out, then, he said the following words to me:

"Tinky, Jesus loves you. That's why he's going to have you tortured in Hell for all eternity for wanting to share your life another man."

I had never heard of anyone loving someone so completely like that until then--this was before President Bush began sharing his love with brown people--and I was very touched by it. The rest of the call was very pleasant after that. We discussed God, gladiator movies, what I was wearing at that moment, etc. You know. We just talked about everything. Finally, he ended the call by asking me if I was willing to undergo reparative therapy and become an ex-gay for Jesus. I immediately answered yes, and here I am today, 756 aversion-therapy-prescribed electrical shocks to my naughty bits later, happy, Christain, ex-Gay, and waiting for the treatment's side effects to wear off so I can smile. Oh, and I'm no longer purple. I've died my fur a more heterosexual shade of fuchsia.

I owe all that to Jerry Falwell. I'll miss him.

Update - More Eulogies from:

Down with Tyranny

Our Lord and Savior