Sing along with me, “Who lives in a pineapple under the sea? SPONGE-BOB-SQUARE-PANTS! Who’s light in the loafers, and queer as can be? SPONGE-BOB-SQUARE-PANTS.”
Dr. James Dobson, one of the most—if not THE most—influential evangelical ministers in America today, is making the world a safer place for us, one animated pantywaist at a time. Who knew that PBS was such a dangerous place to hang out? Just in case SpongeBob is nothing more than a metrosexual (and if so, Bob, hie thee to the Queer Eye guys immediately! You need help! Those shorts are so OVER.), I thought I’d offer him some advice.
An Open Letter to SpongeBob—I am writing you this letter because I consider myself to be your friend. After all, you have given my children countless hours of entertainment, and allowed me some time to myself when it was absolutely vital. I do not believe the rumors that are circulating, but feel I must warn you, Mr. Squarepants, that your reputation—and your very career—are in danger. I implore you to put away that pink negligee and fuck-me-pumps, and dump the starfish—Dr. James Dobson is ONTO you.
They know about that weekend at Tinky’s you spent, watching old Judy Garland movies and listening to Cher albums, while comparing manicures and debating the merits of Bedhead Hair products vs. Bumble and Bumble. You are no longer safely in the closet.
NO more hanging out at nightclubs with Barney and Tinky Winky. Those two are walking advertisements for your, uh, alternate lifestyle. Everybody KNOWS the color purple means gay. Right? Oh, and Tinky Winky carries that purse. And he’s gentle. You also must consider Barney’s reputation. After all, he is the first to wear all purple. It’s his signature color. Tinky Winky is only emulating what Barney began. Gay pride!
Since Dr. Dobson is already eyeballing the regulars, I have a diversion tactic. I shall point him in the direction of Boobah. As Heather Armstrong pointed out in her before-Christmas blog, those creatures mightily resemble an uncircumcised penis. At least you don’t look like someone’s genitals. Once he gets a load of Boobah, we’ll have a lot of time to work.
Now, while Dobson’s attention is elsewhere, I suggest a makeover. It’s nothing that an AK-47 assault rifle, a friend named Bubba and a few dead game animals won’t fix. I realize that four to ten-year-old children don’t relate well to blood and guts and Bambis dying left and right (at least those children in this age range who have not yet decapitated or murdered their own small animal), but consider the alternatives—no SpongeBob on television at all.