Goddamn. I guess white Gallagher ain’t going out like no punk bitch either!

Then Gallagher gets going. And fuck. Bremerton is a military town and a conservative one: It’s more than just a slide into obscurity that delivered Gallagher to the Admiral rather than, say, the Moore in Seattle. You see, Gallagher is—how best to put this?—a paranoid, delusional, right-wing religious maniac. I HAD NO IDEA.
“Hey, President Obama,” he spits out the name like a mouthful of burning hair. “You ain’t black. I don’t care what you say—you’re a latte. You’re half whole-milk. It could be goat milk—you could be a terrorist!” I am too busy losing my mind to catch the next joke, which is about Ted Kennedy’s brain cancer. Aaaaand we’re off.
Wow, I haven’t heard the complaint about tattoos being an offense to God since my teenage years, when a religious friend fretted on my behalf! I had heard things over the years about him being antagonistic toward his audience, and I read an interview recently that probably didn’t do him any P.R. favors, but still, my main understanding of the guy was the somewhat hokey dude from the VH1 specials in the ’80s when I was growing up. Wasn’t he even waxing nostalgic about the spirit of the ’60s in one of them? I wonder when he took such a sharp right turn.
Well, at least now I have an idea for a gift for some of my wingnut relatives, if he ever tours in the area.