If I ever visit Topeka, I shall pack dancing shoes
Fred Phelps is dead.
It is usual, on the passing of a fellow human being, to avoid speaking ill of him or her. To afford that person a certain dignity in death, as though the mere act of dying confers a sort of benefaction. There is an unseemliness that attaches to treating the person’s demise as anything other than sad.
To hell with all that.
Fred Phelps was a blight. He was a receptacle for the absolute worst, most despicable kind of hatred humanity is capable of producing. The god of his imagining was a demon of bile, and his appearance before the public eye was a festering sore.
I do not regret the happiness I feel knowing I no longer share an oxygen supply with him. I do not believe in the existence of a hell, even for the likes of people like him. If there is a judgment that awaits him, let his loved ones hope it is before a judge more merciful than the one he worshiped.
It is a truism on the Internet that to invoke a comparison to the Nazis is to lose one’s argument immediately. Does anyone doubt the comparison is apt in this case? Does anyone dispute that the deceased would have been the first to sign up for duty packing people like me, my husband and many of my friends off to the ovens? Shall I strive to find a reason to speak well of him?
Let his equally-despicable “church” mark his passing with whatever rituals and rites they hold dear. May he rest in more peace than the innocent people whose own funerals he profaned with his message of vitriol. And may his memory sink into prompt obscurity.