The same-sex marriage postal survey is almost upon us. For some, the consequences of this vote will be life-changing. It’s obviously despicable that our government has outsourced responsibility for its people’s of civil liberties to an opinion poll. But since they have, decent Australians must do everything we can to fight for the human rights of some of our most vulnerable citizens: evangelical Christians who work in the wedding industry.
If the “yes” vote succeeds, florists, dove wranglers and confetti manufacturers across the country all risk losing their God-given right to victimise LGBTI people. So-called “anti-discrimination legislation” may forbid them from refusing to contribute to weddings they morally oppose, just as it oppressed brave conscientious objectors to interracial marriage before them.
Consider this dire warning from an American already suffering under marriage equality. He smuggled the message to us the only way he could: in a lengthy string of incoherent Facebook comments underneath an Alex Jones video.
Chilling. Alas, only the most dedicated freedom fighters, like libertarian senator David Lyjonhelm, are standing up for baker’s rights. The ABC also published a wonderful defence of the religious freedom of pâtissiers written by Reverend Peter Kurti of the far-right Centre for Independent Studies. Given that the state broadcaster is run by a brood of Leninist degenerates, it was a rare treat to see taxpayer’s money being put to good use.
But I’m worried it’s not enough. So for those of you with colleagues or in-laws who are considering voting “yes” in the plebiscite it – or, God forbid, if you’re on the fence yourself – I pray that you consider the apocalyptic world we’ll live in if this anti-family agenda succeeds. The grave vision that follows is fictional – for now. It’s up to us to ensure it doesn’t become a reality.
My name is Rainbow Meringue 69. I had another name, once, but it was taken from me, when they took all of our names.
That begun when they unbaptised the babies. They said it was abusive to give a newborn a girl’s name or a boy’s name, and that to call them something normal, like “Ronald” or “Mary”, was racist. Now we can’t even refer to them as “babies” – that’s in contravention of anti-ageism regulations, punishable by three hundred lashes.
I finish a sugar rose and start making another. I have made so many that the cuts in my fingers are opening again. The flowers pile up beside me, a garden of mauve despair.
I suppose I should start at the beginning.
When we lost the postal survey and same-sex marriage was allowed I didn’t think much of it. Sure, some Christians were disappointed, but the media assured us that not much would change. Even those of us in the baking industry believed them. We were like lamingtons to the slaughter.
I did think twice when when the Safe Space millitias started marching through the streets, throwing Molotov cocktails at churches and smashing male-shaped pedestrian crossing lights. But it’s funny how quickly you get used to these things.
Two months after the plebiscite, the Australian Federal Government became the Politically Correct Caliphate of West New Zealand. Their first decree was to cancel Christmas.
I kept my head down. I didn’t make eye contact. I swore allegiance to Beelzebub like everyone else, because I knew that if I didn’t I’d be forced to pull the floats in their weekly Mardi Gras parades.
Then one day they asked me to bake a cake for one of their weddings.
“I can’t,” I told, “I’m a Christian and I believe in traditional marriage.”
They siezed my assets. They sent me to a bakery. They gelded me.
The tears well up, but I can’t let them fall. Last week I cried on an obscene croquembouche they forced to bake for one of their orgiastic receptions. The pansexual genderqueer triad who own me said that the salt from my tears ruined the flavour, threw it out and made me start again.
I’m so tired. Every morning I’m woken at 2 AM by the valkyrie wailing of Adele. I polish the Magda Szubasnki statue, and pull on my sheer sequin-covered burqa, and get to work.
The bakery is small and hot. The ingredients they give me are bitter and thin: almond milk, raw sugar, pureed foetuses. No-one’s allowed to have gluten anymore.
They have so many gay weddings I can’t keep up. Some have three or four a day; to animals, Satan, all kinds of things. My hands are cramped and singed from all the work. Purple profiteroles. Red velvet unicorn cakes. Rosewater and lemongrass soufflés in the shape of Ian Thorpe’s buttocks.
It was my Great Aunt Chastity who first warned me of the dangers of limiting the right of business owners to select their own clientele. “It all started in the when the anti-discrimination people told me to take the ‘No Irish’ sign out of the front of my flowers shop. The very next day the Soviet Army took Czechoslovakia.”
I didn’t believe her. Now her flower shop is an Irish Pub and I’m nothing but a ghost, imprisoned beneath this oppressively fabulous burqa.
I have used an icing spatula to scratch this poem onto the walls of the yeast cupboard in my bakery. I pray to Jesus that it will one day it will be seen.
First they came for the people who came for the Jews; and I did not speak out, for I was not an anti-Semite.
Then they came for the people who came for the other ethnics; and I did not speak out, for some of my best friends are black.
Then they came for the people who came for the women; and I did not speak out, for I love females, I could never disrespect one, they’re beautiful.
Then they came for the people who came for the homosexuals; and there was no-one left to speak out for me.
I am a cake baker. This is my tale.