A white guy driving the shittiest, beat-up GM pick-up you can conjure, sporting on its back window a sticker recreating the iconic Ford logo, except instead of "Ford," it read "Fags."

Iain pointed it out to me while we were on the way to the grocery store—in our Ford Fusion.

"I think that makes us fags," I observed.

"And it makes that guy a total douchebag," Iain added.

"It's pretty fucked up to see hate speech just driving down the road like that," I said.

I imagined the gay children who didn't even have words to describe themselves yet but maybe already had some sense of what the word "fag" means, maybe because they'd been called a fag on the playground—what would they feel when they saw that guy's truck and his despicable sticker? And then I imagined shattering that window into a million billion pieces with one arcing swing of a baseball bat.

But I don't wield a baseball bat. I wield a teaspoon.

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