I was raised as an Episcopalian, and as much as I hated Sunday school when I was eight and nine the boilerplate teachings of Christianity must have somehow seeped into my head. Because via the profound transportation of lysergic acid diathylamide I sought out spirituality in my early 20s, and this resulted in my becoming a kind of upper-middle-class Hindu in flared jeans and Brooks Brothers shirts, led along by by the saga of Arjuna and Krishna in the Bhagavad Gita.

So I’ve always felt a certain affinity for satori and holiness and spiritual ritual (candles, incense, singing of dreary hymns). Sometime in the ’90s I attended a Catholic mass service inside Notre Dame in Paris, and on some level it felt right. I attended another one in Rome around the turn of the century — same feeling when it ended. I’m no Christian, mind — I’m an LSD mystic by way of Siddhartha, Steppenwolf, Baba Ram Dass, Sri Chinmoy, Alan Watts, George Harrison and John Lennon.

But I’m not Bill Maher either. I respect what the faith of Christianity has at least tried to do as far as guiding or influencing the flock in the direction of kindness and occasional charity and whatnot.

But dear God, I felt such intense nausea when I watched the Ru Paul-ish drag show parody of the Last Supper during the opening ceremonies for the Paris Olympics. Pissing on Christianity! I sat there and felt sick. That morbidly obese chick with the silver-halo crown around her head, making a heart shape with her hands…I’ll never forget that Porky Pig face as long as I live. Jesus H. Christ! And that blue Dionysus guy! The trans community has really and truly shit all over itself this time. An obscenity.

News bulletin for full-of-themselves trans exhibitionists worldwide: There is more to life than gender switch-offs and sexual identity. You’ve just stamped your own ticket, guys. Your time of benign cultural favor has just ended. The world is disgusted. No offense but people hate you.