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world without breeders. Homos and lezzies sit sipping cappuccino at a cafe on Bleecker Street. We have nothing to worry about: We have enough turkey basters to last us until the next millennium.
    Or maybe we’ll just disappear one day. Without us talented fags and dykes, Broadway will grind to a complete halt, there won’t be a single restaurant left open in the tri-state area, and hair everywhere will be completely unhinged.
    You can’t stop us now: We already control all the major advertising agencies in the country; we’ve bought the media from the kikes. Sometime next year you’ll turn on “Masterpiece Theatre” and watch homo love scenes. The kiddies will see condom commercials during the Saturday-morning cartoons. Lesbo newscasters will eat pussy during the six o‘clock news.

Night of the Living Dead
     
    Middle America is scared of us, an army of perverts, and rightly so! We are lethal weapons. We are not innocent victims. We kill and kill again. The general population sees us as the walking wounded, an army of lepers, infected with the virus; they will wear their elbow-length yellow-rubber gloves and carry nightsticks. And we’ll shout back: “Gloves are for fisting, not arresting! ”
    The most frightening aspect to them, the enemy, is that we can pass. How can you tell if you are surrounded by fags? We don’t lisp anymore. Our wrists aren’t limp. There’s no way to tell us apart from the general population because we are the general population. It’s Night of the Living Dead, with pod people everywhere.
    Imagine the bravest army ever. Some of us are sick; some of us are covered with lesions; some of us can barely walk; some of us are asymptomatic; some of us are healthy and lending our fullest support to this cause because we are fighting for our lives!

Apologia pro Vito Sua
     
    Do you know why I am telling you all of this? Do you think I’m just trying to entertain you with these out-and-out lies? You couldn’t be farther from the truth. I want to terrorize you. I want to spur you into action. I want to show you how fucking angry I am. It took five fucking years for President Ray-Gun to even say the word AIDS aloud. He tried to sweep the problem under the rug by creating a commission to come up with some recommendations on the AIDS crisis; he appointed some of the most homophobic and reactionary right-wing lunatics to this commission, including a Catholic cardinal; for a year, this commission met and held hearings, and with some helpful prodding by ACT UP, the commission actually came up with some reasonable recommendations ; and what did Ronnie “Bitburg” Reagan do? Ignored his own commission.
    I can understand how Larry Kramer self-destructed. It’s too late for a rational dialogue with the government, when it responds only with delays, malice, and all of this talk about the “general population” not being at risk. I want you to be afraid of us. I have blood in my eyes and a fire in my belly and I am tired of watching my friends lose their minds and control of their bodily functions. At this rate, Europe will probably come up with the cure, but in the meantime there’s a lot that the U.S. can be doing. The government lies to us every day. Tony Fauci of NIAID (National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases) had to be up against the wall in a congressional hearing before he admitted to Congress-man Ted Weiss, a saint in anyone’s book, that he simply did not have the staff for the paperwork; aerosol pentamidine’s approval for general use was delayed for over a year and a half because he did not have the staff. Why did it take him a congressional hearing to tell someone he was understaffed? Because there’s no goddamned leadership and the President couldn’t care less.

Flashbacks and Postmortems
     
    It’s the final Monday meeting before the action, and Bobby B. sings the new ACT UP rap song. Suddenly I find myself in the throes of a drug flashback (acid? isoprinosine?