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"You think that we'll corrupt your kids if our agenda goes unchecked. Just this once … you're correct. We'll convert your children, happens bit by bit, quietly and subtly. We'll convert your children, reaching one and all. There's really no escaping it. We're coming for your children! We're coming for your children! We're coming for your children!"
Creepy or what? You're probably wondering where I found this terrifying threat. An early episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer? The trailer to Blumhouse Productions' latest horror blockbuster, perhaps? A dream journal lifted from an insane asylum?
Nope. These are song lyrics from an organization more sinister and frightening than any scary movie you had in mind: the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus (SFGMC), a crying circle for Bay Area pederasts. It's what happens when clerical sexual abuse meets soullessness, joylessness and tunelessness. The song, which keeps disappearing from YouTube because even leftists are shocked by its accidental truthfulness, cannot be unseen. Musically, it is terrible, and of course boring — because ideas this ugly cannot be expressed in beautiful words or melodies. The singers look haunted — because they are. The message is unvarnished, explicit, unequivocal: It was always about the kids.
The ugliest hues in the gay rainbow are the nebulous pastels of transgenderism, because trans ideology compels mothers to sacrifice their own children, just as pagan cults promised fertility through blood sacrifice. At its heart, homosexualism is a form of demonic grasping for transcendence, a perversion of our natural longing for our Almighty Father, which follows naturally from these pagan origins. But gay men are nothing if not competitive, and this video represents male homosexuality's attempt to reclaim the top spot of terror from the Korybantic priests of trans acceptance.
The shabby, earthly cult of homosexualism has always been laser-focused on children because it is really a reimagining of a very old, pagan form of worship: blood sacrifice, especially of children by their own kin, in the hope of supernatural reward. It is also, as betrayed by the chillingly robotic performances from these spiteful Californian songbirds, an inversion of divine joy. Everything they do is a pathetic inversion of the good, the whole and the true — even their wretched rainbow, a reappropriation of the symbol of God's covenant with Noah, explicitly associated with fertility because the ark was populated by heterosexual pairs of animals.
The immediate physical objectives of the LGBT movement are diabolical because they militate against human fertility. Sterile homosexual congress, castration and the corruption of children stand in defiant opposition to the fertility of Christianity. Believing in Jesus Christ requires an act of faith in a Holy Patriarch and a rejection of the demonic terror of transsexualism. Trannies are the castrated priests of Cybele whom Augustine saw dancing in the streets of Carthage, dressed like women but not women.
And yet, the blinding light of eternal truth makes man's defiance look tiny. In Christianity, we embrace a longing for the "gender fluidity" of the incarnation, of the marriage of human and divine. This is a more dangerous ambition than anything the squalid bedwetters of trans Twitter can conceive: Our God became incarnate — wedding his divinity to our humanity in Mary's womb — to become the sacrifice.
Against my Christian instincts, I want to summon hatred for the smug, gyrating malefactors of the SFGMC. But I can't. These men aren't pedophiles — though many of them were turned into homosexuals by pedophiles. For the most part, they are simply misguided, afraid and damaged children who have no clue how to behave or who to be because they have never experienced an authentic, platonic relationship with another man. They are hopelessly disconnected from their ordained purpose, seized by fear, sprinting as fast as their legs will carry them from their responsibilities and the growing suspicion that they were destined for leadership and fatherhood.
Look behind the eyes of the lead singer. There is nobody home. It's the same whichever preening chanteuse your eye lands on. They are dead children — children murdered by trauma and suffocated by parental abandonment, souls vacuumed out to leave fragile, brittle, gym-stiffened carapaces and sinister Botoxed lips that twirl and spasm on YouTube in crisply harmonized choreographies of despair. Have you ever seen a man as uncomfortable in his own skin as Troy Iwata, aforementioned lead singer of this pastiche of a public service announcement?
Iwata is 30, but dresses like a sixteen-year-old. He has appeared in glossy advertisements for Toys"R"Us and Babies"R"Us, his soiled hands and soiled mouth selling children's toys. Meanwhile, his Instagram bio reads: "My floor, face down." And yet I can't hate him. His soul may have retreated somewhere it cannot be hurt, which has rendered him a menace to others. But there is something heartbreaking and tragic and futile about his always-on performance, and how frantically he pretends that he is having fun. Iwata is locked in place at the age gay-making abuse happened to him — held tight in the childhood that was stolen from him.
I am overwhelmed with compassion for these dead-eyed derelicts because I have been where they are. I know the world they inhabit — a world of drug abuse, child abuse, self-abuse, people trafficking and stained sheets. But the horrors homosexuals face have nothing to do with Christians trying to love them and pray for them, but are rather embedded in the nature of gayness and its rejection of God's plan. These lost lambs beg for tolerance from the people who sodomized them as children while spitting and hissing at expressions of love from strangers who seek to save their immortal souls.
I know it doesn't seem like it, but the grief-battered vagabonds of the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus are victims, too, even as they smirk about violating your babies. (And then periodically hide the video on YouTube out of panic and shame.) The bitter online rituals they enact are fake liturgies that reveal the scars of adolescent burglary. Years ago, overbearing mothers, absent or abusive fathers, and pedophile priests snatched the joy these men were born to experience — the joy of God's love for them. All that's left now is sullen, sodden, sick-making grotesque. Pity them. Pray for them. And — whatever you do, please — keep your children away from them.
MILO YIANNOPOULOS is a New York Times-bestselling author, an award-winning investigative reporter, a reformed sodomite, a global political sensation, a free speech martyr, an accomplished serial entrepreneur, a hair icon, a penitent, and, to the annoyance of his many enemies, a happy person. Nicknamed the "pop star of hate" by jealous fatties in the media, Milo is the most censored, most lied-about man in the world, banned from entire continents for his unapologetic commitment to the sound of his own voice. His first book, Dangerous, sold a quarter of a million copies, despite never being reviewed in any major publication. Milo lives in Florida, where he is preparing to open a reparative therapy clinic for men plagued by same-sex attraction. He welcomes letters from readers, and can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
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