Next fall, CCV will ask legislators to make the book mandatory reading for all kids ages 6-12. Scene obtained a leaked copy of the text, tentatively titled I'm OK, But You, Kid, Are A Damned Sodomite. A sample chapter, "Rapunzel & The Virtue of a Handsome Trust Fund," appears below:
Once upon a time, there was a couple who longed for a child. But they lived in sin and used birth control, which is tantamount to murder. It's safe to assume God hated them.
Their apartment overlooked a splendid garden, filled with beautiful flowers and herbs. Yet it was also surrounded by a high wall, which is a good way to protect private property. If other people wanted to enjoy a garden, they should get a job and buy one for themselves.
No one dared climb the wall, for it was owned by a wicked enchantress named Nancy Pelosi. She had come from California, a land of sodomites who were against Jesus and Christmas.
One day the woman was standing by the window, gazing upon the wonderful flowers and herbs. Especially the herbs. They looked so fresh and tasty, she longed to smoke them. But she knew she could not have them, for if she scaled the wall, Nancy Pelosi would surely place a curse on her, and she would suddenly get the urge to make tax-deductible contributions to Planned Parenthood.
Her desire, however, would not abate. She began to look pale and miserable, like Kate Moss on a coke bender.
Her boyfriend was alarmed. "What ails you, dear woman?"
"If I cannot wolf a few bowls of that fine herb, I fear I shall die," she replied with sorrow.
The man loved the woman -- just not enough to marry her so she wouldn't be shacking up like some common whore. So that night, he climbed the wall around Nancy Pelosi's garden, and stuffed his pockets full of kind bud. When he returned home, she quickly wolfed the herbs, then passed out while watching Transportation Committee hearings on C-SPAN.
By the next morning, she was addicted. She longed for the herb three times as much as she had the day before. "If I do not get more bong hits soon," she told the man, "I fear I will surely die, or perhaps rob a Radio Shack."
Reluctantly, the man once again scaled the wall that night. But when his feet touched the garden, he was consumed by a terrible fright. Before him was Nancy Pelosi.
The foul enchantress was a chilling sight, for her teeth were like daggers, her eyes like a shark's -- though she was wearing a sensible Jaclyn Smith pantsuit with matching handbag.
"How dare you steal my herb," the nefarious enchantress shouted. "I grow it expressly for the people of California, so they will fall prey to debauchery, rendering them unable to recognize the superiority of the conservative agenda!"
The man, if one could call him that, was not very brave. He had never served his country in the military, nor had he even rented Top Gun. Neighbors suspected he was from France or Massachusetts.
"Please have mercy on me, Nancy Pelosi," he groveled, "for my theft of your handsome bud was born of necessity. My girlfriend -- who, I might add, is a tramp, since she allows me to ravage her feminine attributes out of wedlock -- had such a longing for your herb that she feared she would die. As you can see, I am merely a dupe in this matter. If you are planning litigation or evil, I suggest it be directed at her."
"Silence!" screamed Nancy Pelosi, the veins popping in her neck like hungry rattlesnakes.
Then her anger softened, for she had fashioned a keenly malevolent plot. "I will spare you, and allow you to take as much herbal goodness as you wish, but under one condition: You and the whore shall have a child, and I shall take it as my own!"
As previously stated, the man was a wuss. Instead of pleading for the sanctity of woman and womb, he quickly consented to the plan, and offered to throw in a year's subscription to Sports Illustrated.
On the day the child was born, Nancy Pelosi appeared. She named the girl Rapunzel, and took her away to California, so she could one day be taught to hate America and have amorous desires for other women.
Yet the young girl had no interest in motorcycles or softball, and was therefore not butch. She became, in fact, the most beautiful child in the land. Nancy Pelosi feared Rapunzel would someday marry, produce many children, and teach Sunday school. This was more than she could bear.
So when Rapunzel was 12, the enchantress locked her away in a tower in the forest. It had neither door nor stairs -- only a small window at the top. When Nancy Pelosi wanted to see her, she placed herself beneath the window and cried, "Yo, Rapunzel, let down the hair."
Rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold. Had she any business sense, she would have sold it for hair extensions. She could probably get as much as 12 bucks. Yet Nancy Pelosi was a bad custodial parent. She had neglected to teach Rapunzel the important lesson of exploiting one's natural resources for personal gain.
So the girl would unfurl her braided tresses and allow them to fall from the tower, and the enchantress would use them to climb up.
One day the king's son rode through the forest. He was neither handsome nor particularly smart. Not that it mattered, since he possessed a very large trust fund.
On that day, the prince heard a beautiful song. "Reminiscent of early Bee Gees," he thought to himself, though he didn't actually use the word "reminiscent," for it contained four syllables. It was Rapunzel, who spent her solitude singing the sweet odes to Michael Moore and Satan that Nancy Pelosi taught her as a child.
The king's son wanted to climb up and see her, but there was no door to the tower. Sadly, he rode home. But the singing had so touched his heart, he returned each day to hear Rapunzel's tender musical stylings.
One day, he was standing behind a tree when he saw Nancy Pelosi approach the tower. He heard her cry, "Yo, Rapunzel, let down the hair," then watched the enchantress climb up.
The next day, under cloak of darkness, he returned to the tower. "Yo, Rapunzel," he cried, "let down the hair." The prince quickly climbed up.
At first, Rapunzel was terribly frightened. Though the prince had once been a male cheerleader, he was technically still a man, a species she had yet to behold. He tried to soothe her, noting that her singing was as beautiful as a 100-point jump of the Dow. Yet she was still horrified.
The prince was used to rejection. Many a maiden had spurned his romantic entreaties, for his IQ was that of a manual transmission. Yet he had learned during his studies at Yale a surefire way to surmount such blockades. "I have a very large trust fund," he told Rapunzel.
The girl, of course, was instantly smitten. Given a choice between living in a tower and testing out the throw weight of the prince's American Express, this was a no-brainer. "I will marry you at once," she told the prince, "so long as you never actually touch me, and we can figure out how to get outta this goddamned tower."
Though vulgarities are never appropriate, especially from a lady, in this case we'll excuse it because there was a great deal of money involved.
The prince quickly fashioned a plan. He would bring a skein of silk each day. Rapunzel would weave from it a ladder. Of course, it would have been much easier to buy an actual ladder, but that would have ruined the story's ascending drama.
So each day the prince hid behind a tree, waiting for Nancy Pelosi to complete her visit. Then he would climb Rapunzel's hair and deliver the silk.
The enchantress was none the wiser -- until one day Rapunzel let her secret slip. "Why, when you climb my hair, are you so much heavier than the prince?" she asked Nancy Pelosi. "Have you considered the South Beach Diet?"
Nancy Pelosi was furious; she now knew that Rapunzel was courting on the sly -- with a man, no less! "You wicked child," she screamed. "You have deceived me. I shall cut off your hair and take you to the desert, where you will live in grief and that punk will never find you!"
And so she did.
But the evil enchantress also had plans for the prince. That evening, when he called for Rapunzel to let down her hair, Nancy Pelosi lowered the luscious locks she had shorn earlier in the day. When the prince climbed into the tower, he came face to face with the truest form of iniquity: a Democrat from California.
"Aha," mocked Nancy Pelosi, "you have come to fetch your dearest, eh? But the beautiful bird no longer sings from the nest! Rapunzel is lost to you! The cat has got it, and will scratch out your eyes as well!"
The prince was at first thrown by Nancy Pelosi's metaphorical speech. Bird? Cat? Huh? But he swiftly regained his bearings and attacked the enchantress, using moves he'd learned from Steven Seagal movies.
Alas, his last bout of fisticuffs had been in the second grade, when he was easily dispatched by a really tall girl named René, until the Secret Service finally came to his rescue. The middle-aged congresswoman decisively kicked his ass. He was a former male cheerleader, after all.
The prince was beside himself. He leapt from the tower and escaped with his life, making a mental note to omit the incident from his autobiography. Then he scurried home and cried on his mother's lap, though he was 59 years old and quite heavy.
For years he roamed in misery, searching the earth for his dearest Rapunzel. Then one day a wonderful song alit his ears. It was coming from the tool shed on his Texas ranch. Unbeknownst to the prince, Rapunzel had been working there all along as undocumented yard help.
The two embraced and wept in joy. He led her back to his kingdom, where she was joyfully received with a spread in Good Housekeeping. The prince was soon named King, and he happily blew up small countries to make the world safe for U.S. energy interests. He also paid Nancy Pelosi a handsome sum to keep her trap shut about that whole tower episode.
Which is why it's always good to have a trust fund, because everyone lived happily ever after.