Back in the 1970s, when I was deep in the closet and my mother was working the phones in Dade County, Florida, supporting Anita Bryant's campaign against protecting gay teachers' right to work, she asked me if I was gay. I said no, lying of course, all the more so because, as fate would have it, right then was the first time in my life I was absolutely positively certain I was gay. Her response? "Good. Because if I ever found out you were gay, I'd put a bullet through your head."
I used to think neanderthal thinking like that was generational--my parents' generation. I had taken hope from the fact that ROH wrestlers like Mike Bennett and Maria Kanellis had spoken out against hate. I had taken hope from the fact that even virulently anti-gay hate groups like Focus on the Family at least tried to dress up their bigotry in civil if seldom truthful language. But here's Jay Briscoe, young enough to be my son, spewing the same kind of ignorant, self-righteous bile I remember from my youth. Of course, I knew that homophobia not only still exists but still thrives. I had just hoped that it wasn't as baldly and openly murderous as it was forty years ago.
Thank you, Jay Briscoe, for the buzz-kill, you fucking moron.