The birds were chirping and the roosters were crowing as Celestia's God's sun rose over the rolling plains and trailer parks of Topeka, Kansas. Other than the occasional strong gust of wind blowing the exhaust fumes from meth labs, it was a beautiful day. And the day was made all the more glorious by the wonderful news which the city had received.
The residents of the city were abuzz, all the way from Washburn University to Gage Park, from Brown to the Board of Education. For today, they had received word that Fred Phelps, founder of the Westboro Baptist Church, had finally bit the dust.
At first, they didn't believe it. They thought that this was too good to be true, like when Google had decided to locate their new data center to the city but pulled out at the last minute, or when domestic violence was legalized because the city couldn't afford enough police. But no, it really was true, because the news said so. (Brought to you by cnn.com)
The gays, fearful to go outside in public since the day that Phelps had first set up his church, slowly emerged from their homes, poking their heads out of their doors one by one.
"Is it safe?" said one.
"I think so," said another.
Slowly but surely, the gay residents of Topeka trickled into the streets. After they didn't find themselves being harassed by a certain cowboy-behatted pastor and his brainwashed ilk, they began to celebrate.
They waved rainbow flags and pranced and danced around in the streets, doing cartwheels and singing a merry song.
"Ding Dong! Fred Phelps is dead. Which old Fred? The pastor Fred!
Ding Dong! The Wicked Fred is dead.
He's gone where he thinks homos go, below, below, below!"
The pride parade procession worked its way around the block until finally reaching the front door of Westboro Baptist Church.
Shirley Phelps-Roper sat up from reading the Bible. She had just been trying to work out through context clues what the word "thither" meant, but her thoughts were disturbed by a merry, jolly, one could almost say... gay celebration outside the church.
She glanced out the window to see the crowd of homosexuals celebrating the death of her father. But, little did they know, the church had kicked out Fred Phelps himself after he had revealed that he didn't really hate fags at all, but rather he was simply a greedy lawyer in there to make a few quick bucks.
But in her pride and arrogance, Shirley walked out to speak to the gays.
"Here to repent for your sins, eh? Ah, I see that our protesting has finally done its work. Now please, come in, and you can beg forgiveness."
"No, being gay isn't a choice!" one of them cried. "We're here to picket Fred Phelp's funeral, just like he used to do to everyone else!"
"Karmic justice!" another one proclaimed.
Shirley Phelps chuckled. "Oh, you didn't know? He's been excommunicated from the church. We actually planned on picketing his funeral ourselves."
The gays all blinked, not knowing what to make of this ironic twist of fate.
But then, Phelps shook her head. "Alas, though. He's being cremated."
Somewhere in the depths of tartarus hell, Fred Phelps let out a chuckle.