• Maggie Gallagher: One Woman’s Catholic Marriage Dilemma

    January 17, 2011 10:06 pm 35 comments

    Maggie Gallagher and Raman Srivastav

    The first thing you’ll probably want to know is that I was born in Oregon and that I had a beautiful Catholic childhood and all that Frank McCourt stuff about being an Irish-American, but that’s not really relevant to the story I wish to share today. In the first place, there isn’t space on all of Christwire for a full biography considering what I’ve been through and in the second place, my duties as founder of the National Organization for Marriage keep me incredibly busy. I get about two hemorrhages a day just trying to spread the simple truth shared by all human civilizations throughout history that marriage is between one man and one woman, despite what those crumby homosexuals say. Besides, I’ve already appeared everywhere from Fox to Limbaugh to talk about the long-term dangers of same-sex cohabitation and declining birthrates. I’ll just tell you about a few things that happened in my past and address some of the controversies that have been swirling around my marital relations and why I don’t wear a wedding ring and all that.

    As a Yale grad and a Virgo, I’ve always been perspicacious. I used to plan out every stage of my life on little pink note cards with headings like “Marriage” and “Husband’s Career.” Of course there wasn’t one labeled “Homosexuals” back then. How shocked I would’ve been to know that some day secular bigots would try to sneak that nasty thing in ol’ Maggie’s deck! But I’m getting ahead of myself. I wanted to tell you about a crisis that happened over 20 years ago when one lousy heterosexual stormed through my life, shuffling my wonderful cards into a hot mess.

    He had an adorably meaty face and a luminous mane like Larry Fortensky. Maybe that’s no coincidence since I considered myself a bit like Liz Taylor in those days. I had a delicious perm and usually accented my style with chunky earrings. It was Reagan’s 80s, what can I say? He told me his name was John and over the course of many bottles of Bartles & Jaymes Melon Splash at a corner table, he won my heart.

    Later that evening, I made a terrible mistake I will never forget. I decided to give Maggie’s most precious and beautiful gift to that man. It all passed so quickly. John cleared the oil rags from the yellowed mattress in the back of his van. I nervously unclasped my favorite Vanity Far bra and he whispered in my ear, “Roll over on your tummy and I’ll tell you when I’m finished.” I could see the parking lot through the windshield, the crescent moon, and despite the college students vomiting chunks of calamari behind the dumpster, it seemed like the most romantic moment of my life. Lying there I thought of the promise before me; a wedding dress so enormous it would fill an entire page of the Yale Daily News, a fussy Victorian home in the suburbs, meatloafs dripping with ketchup and casseroles oozing cheese, glazed hams and potatoes stuffed with sour cream, all waiting for my husband to walk through the door after a long day at work.

    What followed will be all too familiar to my women readers out there. John clapped his hands loudly and barked, “Done!” Before I could fully gain my wits, he had pushed me out the back door of the van. I walked into the dark, braless and dripping with his progenitive spray, believing all the while that he was right there behind me. It was only when I heard his engine start up and saw the lights as he pulled out onto that desolate country road did I realize he was gone. I thought to myself, “What would Liz do?” And with that I hitched up my skirt and wiped my parts clean with a greasy Burger King bag I found on the ground.

    A few weeks later I received confirmation from my doctor that I was indeed with child. I returned to McMalley’s Ye Olde Irish Pub on a Tuesday Ladies Night and confronted the father to be. He denied even knowing me, stating that his name was Elton and that he’d sold his Chevy High Top months ago. So there you go Mr. John Elton, or whoever you are, I hope you’re happy with what you did to the beautiful flower that once was me.

    Maggie Gallagher and Raman Srivastav

    William Donohue, the esteemed president of the Catholic League, has noted that our church does not have a pedophile problem, but rather a homosexual one. As someone who spent the next decade of my life navigating the Christian singles dating scene, I can attest to the truth of that statement. I worked my way through a lengthy list of scout leaders, choir members, wrestling coaches and congressional aides, all men whose mothers still held indomitable sway over their lives. I was rudely rejected at every turn. Desperate, I tried Slim Fast, Suzanne Somers’s Buttmaster, Sunday potlucks and a bad red dye job. Eventually I came to realize that the fault was not my own. Homosexuals had invaded the Catholic community and made it quantifiably more difficult for a vivacious single woman to find a husband up to the task of lifelong devotion. This crisis was particularly acute during the rise of Clintonian America, with political correctness tearing this nation apart and sexual abnormalcy gaining federal legitimacy. Deep inside, I simply ached for a real man, a man to feel all over every inch of my body, a man late at night in a moist marriage bed, a man surprising me from behind during my morning shower!

    Homosexuality’s relentless destruction of traditional marriage deeply disturbed me. These are people who denied me my right to be a loving, procreative human being. They destroyed any chance I had to be a faithful Christian wife. They literally ripped all that from my womb! It was a horrific situation and it called for drastic measures. One day, I made a fateful decision: I would look outside my faith for a heterosexual.

    As a life long supporter of the American experiment in democracy and freedom, I felt no guilt in marrying a Hindu. Yes, my husband Raman Srivastav is a Hindu, a man who wears turbans and worships about twelve dozen gods. These gods are the most fantastically silly creations, worse than anything in a Harry Potter book! And Raman, he gets on his knees before those cheap golden statues, with that little red pimple on his forehead, and starts moaning like you wouldn’t believe. Everything about my faith says that our marriage violates the most sacred tenets of the Bible and that Raman is an idolater who will burn in Hell for eternity with the very same homosexuals I have devoted my life to putting in their rightful place. But I still love this man and I am committed to introducing him to the healing power of Jesus Christ. I pray that he will convert before his soul is thrown irrevocably into the River Styx.

    Fred Karger over at the Huffington Post and liberal activists like Donna Pandori, Pam Spaulding and Jeremy Hooper have harassed me for not wearing a wedding ring in public. The truth is that I have circulation problems and my fingers get so swelled I can barely open up a jar of delicious Dill pickles most mornings. Plus, the fabulous ring that Raman gave me is just so huge it sets off metal detectors at the courthouses and airports where I spend much of my days fighting for your rights! Your rights! So don’t give me a hard time about it. Do you people really think I’m slipping off my wedding band so I can pick up strange men at hotel bars and give them quick handjobs in rooms paid for with NOM money? You people have really filthy minds. I’m a Catholic for crying out loud!

    As for the lack of pictures of Raman floating around, well I’ve resolved that with the photo above. I always thought Indians had a superstition that cameras stole their souls. Apparently, that’s the other kind of Indians. Who knew? So you can see he’s a terribly handsome man and I’m very lucky! I don’t think of myself as Liz Taylor anymore. Sometimes I dream that my hubby and me are living out the movie “Funny Girl,” minus the Jewish bits and the divorce part. He’s my Omar Sharif, with his sultry Orientalist looks and his fantastic bridge playing skills, and I’m Barbra Streisand, underestimated as a bitter, horse-faced nag who reeks of hypocrisy and failed femininity in the beginning, only to surprise everyone when I become the tearjerking phenomenon of traditional marriage in the vaudeville of American politics! God bless everyone!


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    About The Author
    Maggie Gallagher Maggie Gallagher is one of America's most beloved journalists. She is the former chairman of the National Organization for Marriage (NOM), which fights to protect traditional Christian morality from left wing radical homosexual activists.

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