Sodom, Gomorrah, and the Soul of Jesustan

The soul of a nation, wrote that great traveler Marco Polo, lies in its countryside.

Before some educated chutiya takes objection: all right, he didn’t say anything of the kind. But someone else did, and for all we know, Marco Polo might have also done so while he was shagging shepherds’ wives in Outer Mongolia. Anyway, whoever said it, it is true.

Last weekend, while I was drowning my many sorrows in some of The Big Hunt’s finest, leering at undergraduates, and generally minding my own business, I was accosted by a Jesustani (who are not in general a people who respect privacy). Like me, it turned out, he was a visitor to this big city, here on business to do with his occupation as an organizer for Beloved Leader’s party.

My new-found acquaintance turned out to be deeply disturbed by what he saw unfolding before us. Hindustan, he told me, had it right. Men did not snog other men, at least not in public places. Women did not talk back. And the lower orders did not let loose at the master race with Uzis, at least not if they weren’t looking to get lynched. Etc.

In Jesustan, he said, there were still places, across the prairies, across the hills, across the rivers, and across the I-95 highway, where all was as it ought to be: lands where men were men and the sheep were nervous. There, he went on, lived the sterling yeomen followers of Beloved Leaders, the real men and real women who had voted back to power earlier this year, in defense of their values. If I wished to see the real Jesustan, my acquaintance said, I would find it there.

So off I went the next morning, disguised by way of caution as a native, with the aid of industrial quantities of Fair and Lovely Facial Cream (Jesustanis in the provinces, my native guides had warned me, are suspicious these days of little brown people, and their fright can sometimes turn to violence). I could not travel on horseback, as Marco Polo would have, but instead used Amtrak. It was a little slower than horseback, given the unfortunate state of Jesustan’s railway infrastructure, but none the less quite satisfactory.

After a long journey, during which I had to endure many privations, I finally arrived at Montandon, in rural Pennsylvania. Deceived by my disguise, the natives greeted me with considerable warmth, and guided me to a place where I might rest. Along the way, I was stopped short by a large board which read “Sodom School”. I jest not: that is precisely what was written. Behind the board was a large octagonal stone building, shaped in a somewhat phallic manner, like a shivling on steroids (the Jesustanis like large things; it compensates for what they do not have, if you get my drift).

It turned out Montandon had been founded by a person named Lot Carson, who had set up a hotel along the road to cater for gentleman-travelers on the high road from Northumberland to Milton who found themselves in need of feminine company. Carson met a sad end, having fallen into a well under the influence of hard spirits, but the Jesustanis venerate their ancestors and did not let his memory die. In 1814, the aforesaid phallus-shaped building was erected as a memorial, which served both as – and here I quote the very reliable Tourist Guide to Central Pennsylvania – “as a schoolhouse and place of worship”.

A place of worship? A schoolhouse? My mind boggled, but aware of my perilous circumstances, I said nothing. More surprises soon greeted me. My informant turned out to be right on at least one count; no Montandon men could be seen in various stages of passionate lip-lock. All the graduates of Sodom School were cloistered in an establishment known as Mustang Sally’s, watching naked women in various stages of passionate lip-lock. I now understood why the followers of Beloved Leader, who have crusaded against men violating the natural order of things, had said not one word about women who violated the natural order of things: lesbian erotica alone stood between Jesustan and an epidemic of buggery.

I had little rest that night, and not only because the images of the melon-breasted lesbians haunted my dreams. The staccato sounds of gunfire interrupted my slumber every few minutes, causing me much unease. It turned out the nearby town of Williamsport had been facing considerable problems with gun-related incidents after its bars closed, the reasons for which no-one had quite deciphered. I ventured to suggest that an advertisement I had seen on a place-mat at Mustang Sally’s might hold the answer. Placed by Messrs. Troxells Sporting Goods, dealers in handguns, rifles and shotguns, it proudly proclaimed: “We sell wholesale to Anyone” [sic., capital A]. It even provided a helpful 24-hour toll-free number for those in need of such transactions: 1-800-339-1562

No native, however, would agree that it was imprudent to sell weapons wholesale to juveniles crazed by an education in Sodom School, and brought to the edge of dementia by the cavorting lesbians at Mustang Sally’s. To them, the right to bear weapons not only served the useful purpose of protecting their womenfolk and themselves from black men with gigantic penises, but were also an affirmation of manhood: a signifier that they were different from those fags and perverts in the big cities. I said nothing; there was nothing to say. I remained silent all the way back to my base camp. I had seen the soul of Jesustan, and it was, indecipherable. Mysterious. Inscrutable. And, well, eccentric.

A post-script on my privations: should any future traveler choose to follow my example, and venture forth to Montandon, do not eat at the local doughnut-and-coffee shops. Diarrhea is, of course, an occupation hazard of the professional traveler, but the fact that Jesustanis wipe their buttocks with toilet paper rather than wash it with water creates special problems. My backside now feels like a piece of plywood must after it is sandpapered and then gone at with chisel and hammer. In addition, it is bright red, like langur’s buttocks, and there is no nice desi kudi to gently minister to it with coconut oil. Your servant is desolate.