Inside the de-gayification of a fallen pastor

When evangelical pastor Ted Haggard resigned on November 2 after admitting to "dark and repulsive" shenanigans with a male prostitute, he was promptly shuttled into a Christian counseling program to be de-gayed.

We knew this process, known as "reparative therapy," involved a lot of laying on of hands, but until we laid our own hands on the following excerpts from Haggard's recovery diary, we didn't realize how brutal it could get.

DAY ONE
11:25 a.m.
So here I am, sequestered in this underground concrete bunker with my wife, Gayle. My recovery counselors, Pastor Jack and Pastor Tommy, have joyously counseled that seven days together in this mildewy cell will reawaken my desire to have strictly procreational sex with her.

I try to escape my inner torments by singing spirituals, like "The Old Rugged Cross" and "Wake Me Up (Before You Go-Go)"

3:43 p.m.
Many dark thoughts still. Painful fantasies where I'm forced to choose between Jesus and Jesus, the swarthy Mexican meth dealer who I met during an unfortunate bender in Denver. I try to escape my inner torments by singing spirituals, like "The Old Rugged Cross" and "Wake Me Up (Before You Go-Go)."

4:05 p.m.
Gayle, hard at work on her needlepoint again. What a womanly trooper! She spent the morning writing to each member of the women's auxiliary, and the afternoon crafting a pillow case with the word "forgiveness" repeated over and over again. An admirable sentiment, but, regrettably, she's rendered it in puce and burnt ochre.

9:17 p.m.
My recovery team just came in to spit on me. Praise them!

DAY TWO
7:45 a.m.
Jesus came to me in the night to offer his encouragement and teach me how to style my hair so that it looks more "piecey."

4:45 p.m.
My recovery team instructed me to lie on top of Gayle for seven hours so that our souls could reconnect. She smelled strangely of tunafish and patchouli, but I pretended not to notice. I learned a great deal about her. She loathes lobster and, to my surprise, found Tom Cruise unconvincing in Vanilla Sky. She also has disturbingly large pores.

After that, we did a little square dancing. Then Gayle retreated to a corner for some primal screaming while I caught up on a few spiritually relevant magazines. Poor sad, sinful Reese Witherspoon!

8:04 p.m.
Tonight my recovery team showed me photos of fine English china (mostly Spode and Royal Doulton) while squeezing my testicles with needle-nose pliers. Then we clung to each other and sobbed. I was disciplined for trying to snort Pastor Tommy's hair.

DAY THREE
10:26 a.m.
Breakthrough! I felt something resembling Christian arousal this morning while solving a Sudoku puzzle with Gayle. When I piously announced this news, however, she pointed out that she had merely jabbed me with her pencil.

Besides this ray of hope, my thoughts remain dark and repulsive, especially those involving Disneyland, hand-blown Christmas ornaments by Christopher Radko, and a certain set of beads with a convenient retrieval handle.

3:32 p.m.
Just before lunch I discovered a cockroach in our cell and named him "Mike Jones." Then, while Gayle was napping, I trained him to lie still while I crushed him to death with my English Standard Version bible.



9:52 p.m.
This evening, my recovery team stripped me naked and whipped me, then slowly and censoriously licked the blood off every inch of my body until Gayle coughed discreetly and suggested that perhaps I had been cured enough for one evening.

She is such a buttinsky!

DAY FOUR
12:12 p.m.
Gayle growing a little bit restless. Today, during morning prayer and reflection, she pulled out most of her hair, then tore off her Wonderbra and gnawed it to shreds. I thought it best to ignore her.

3:10 p.m.
Just received a note from our four children. It reads: "Dear Daddy: We know you would never think of having godless sex again with someone who doesn't know how to coordinate pastel clothing. Please come home as soon as you've remembered how to fornicate with Mommy."

To that end, I've drafted a to-do list:
1) Ravish Gayle. (Ignore her inflamed, mostly hairless scalp.)
2) Failing that, fondle Gayle's wrist.
3) Failing that, mentally review the truly unforgettable performance of the Canadian synchronized swimming team at the '96 Olympics.

10:21 p.m.
Am rethinking my stance on creationism vs. evolution—on the slim chance that Gayle might evolve into a tight-assed college linebacker named JeffMy recovery team upped the ante tonight, forcing me to recreate key moments from the life of a secular entertainer named Cher, while they sipped Cosmos and cackled. Only later did we notice Gayle in the corner with a plastic bag over her head.

Such a downer. She's really starting to burn my nerves.

DAY FIVE
4:06 p.m.
Am rethinking my stance on creationism vs. evolution—on the slim chance that Gayle might evolve into a tight-assed college linebacker named Jeff.

5:11 p.m.
How long does this evolution stuff take?

DAY SIX
2:50 p.m.
That woman actually had the gumption to tell me—me, Ted Haggard—that she thinks Jesus might not "like me anymore," and that my new piecey hairstyle looks "a little feminine." At least I've got hair, you scraggly scalped bitch!

Pastor Tommy had to massage my shoulders, neck, back, hips, inner thighs, and prostate, just to calm me down.

When Gayle tried to make amends, I responded calmly, with as much Christian forbearance as I could muster: "Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup!"

DAY SEVEN
11:34 a.m.
This morning, Pastor Jack solemnly broke the news: I'm cured! Later, during a modest Christian ceremony with live music by Clay Aiken and individual pizzas freshly grilled by Wolfgang Puck, I was showered with white rose petals and presented with a framed certificate. My good friends Mark Foley and Ken Mehlman then carried me about the lawn on their shoulders, followed by tea, reflection, and general rough-housing.



If only my faith-partner Gayle had been there! Sadly, due to her demanding softball schedule, she was unable to attend.

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