"Oh, God Just Made Gays So There'd Be Somebody to Walk His Dogs When He Got Tired of It"

I used to say that.  Really.  When friends or other people would ask why a loving Father in Heaven would make someone gay, I'd quip something like, "He needs somebody to clean all those mansions of His.  Isn't there something somewhere that talks about divine servants?"

It was sort of a joke, but it kind of made sense.  As a formerly active Mormon, I was familiar with the doctrine of celestial marriage between a man and a woman, and that such marriage was the key to inheriting the highest degree of glory (aka "all that the Father hath", etc.) in an eternal life after death.  I also knew as a gay man, that kind of marriage wasn't for me, and thus, as taught in the Doctrine and Covenants 132: 16-17, I could look forward to being "appointed [an] angel in heaven, which angels are ministering servants, to minister for those who are worthy of a far more, and an exceeding, and an eternal weight of glory."

So, OK. I wouldn't be worthy of Lifestyles of the Righteous and Glorified, but, apparently, I could look forward to ministering to their chores for eternity.  Too busy designing worlds, planning the cosmos, and rearing spirit children, the gods and their female counterparts wouldn't have time to walk the celestial dogs, let alone scoop up poop, and Heaven knows that sexless boys who can't (some might say won't) procreate would need something to do.  Sure, cherubim were placed east of Eden with flaming swords (sounds enticing and fabulous, right?), but it warn't that kind of sword play goin' on down yonder.  Thus, in my estimation of things eternal, the gays got security systems and doggie duty. 

I pictured we'd arrive outside the pearly gates, wishing we'd been given feather boas instead of wispy wings, and Versace's Black Leather Crocs instead of worn-out sandals from the DI.  We'd admire the movement of Raphael's ass against his short, blue tunics and the knotting of Michael's forearms when gripping marble pulpits.  We'd probably snicker at Gabriel's warbling little lisp, whistling when he'd read to us the rules and regs we'd need to know about walking God's dogs.

Rule # 37: Thou shalt never let Cerberus nose around in or drink from the lake of fire and brimstone, as it inflames his acid reflux.

Rule #206: Thou shalt never allow Anubis and Hecuba to mate, as this would cause a most undesirable mixing of bloodlines.

Rule #1013: Thou shalt always carry an extra baggy when walking behind Canis Major.  Thou wilt need it. There's a reason his name is Major.

I thought it'd be pretty ideal, taking Heaven's pack to the dog park, flirting with a seraph now and then while the hounds sniffed at cirrus clouds and wagged their tails at thunderbolts.  There'd be chats with  archcangels about politics, fashion and weather.  And, of course, we'd be bagging up the most pristine of poop.  

It would get old pretty quick, though.  Even in heaven, shit stinks.

I don't joke about the gays cleaning up after God anymore.  It wasn't every really that funny in the first place.  I don't know where we gay boys'll end up, but I do know this: what with the bigots and the bullies and the Boyd K's we have to deal with here, I think we've handled enough crap in this life.  I doubt a loving Heavenly Father will be handing us leashes or shovels after we've risen to the courts and cul-de-sacs above--He might just see fit to reward our earthly endeavors with boas or Versace crocs.