Last week I was on the front lines as the crazy religious/cult members of  the Westboro Baptist Church  instigated a picket outside the San Francisco offices of social media giant,  Twitter. (God Hates Twitter!)

In turn SF’s finest and funniest came out in force to mount a counter-protest that had all the kooky fun of a Burning Man party–complete with boomboxes blaring Lady Gaga–as they muffled out WBC’s God Hates Fags’ message.  

I captured all the glory action, in all its  photo splendor–as the freaky people tried to freak out the freaky people. (Click here for the Twitter protest photo story @ Asylum.)

It was purely beautiful to see the humor of “doomed” San Francisco out trumping the asinine message of hate WBC tried to serve up on a bible-thumping  platter. 

Surrounded by a police escort, WBC went back to their home base in Topeka Kansas with their Satanic tails firmly between their hoofed-foot legs. 

This wasn’t the first time I’ve encountered the WBC. I actually spent several days with them at their Topeka home-compound for my book, The American Dream. I wanted to find out firsthand what the American Dream  meant to a religious cult  that basically hates everyone.

I can safely say it’s much more pleasant to be on the San Francisco-side of things at the Twitter protest, than in the floppy clown shoes of the WBC .

Here’s how I felt to be in the shoes of WBC at one of their 3 daily pickets in Topeka Kansas:

Dad is heating up pizza slices and fish sticks for the kids who are running hyperactively around the house as we gear up for the Saturday afternoon picket.

“Do you want a pizza slice?” he asks with smile, wearing a matching red hat and shirt. Still nauseous from the minivan ride, I decline.

Shirley is on the phone in the middle of a brainstorming session: “Cops die and God laughs. That’s good.” (Pause.) “As opposed to ‘Cops die in Hell’?” (Pause.) “These cops in Baltimore are going to hide our signs again, and we’re not going to stand for it!”

Shirley is a regular Burt Bacharach. When the call concludes, she proudly proclaims, “I added another verse.” She describes her composition as a “perfect song,” a musical parody focused on slain cops burning in hell.

“There’s a dead cop in Baltimore, and he was killed by another cop,” she excitedly explains about another scheduled upcoming picket. “Three of us are going. In the Scriptures a three-fold chord is always strong.” I’m handed a copy of the police oath regarding upholding the First Amendment. “They take this oath swearing to Him. I think it’s in their best interest to obey the law of this land!”

Looking at her sign that says THANK GOD FOR DEAD COPS, I ask, “How do you think this will go over?”

“They’re not going to like it,” she confesses. “We’ve had cops in our faces on many occasions. One time the police chief’s son was the dead guy who they were burying. They keep pushing us, and we’re going to push back.” Due to the Phelps family’s antics, the federal jury in Maryland determined that WBC is liable for invasion of privacy and intent to inflict emotional distress. But that doesn’t worry Shirley. “Know what I’m going to pack?” she says. “A step stool!” Her confidence grows: “If some guy is there with a gun it will backfire, cuz the Lord is on our side! God’s not going to put it into people’s minds to do something like that.”

“So, what if the gun doesn’t backfire?”

“Then he’ll deliver us!”

Jubilant little kids pile into the minivan. Once again, it’s picket time. Everyone is happy. Everyone is excited. Children with curly, tussled-hair, ready for their regular Saturday-afternoon family outing.

“What if someone picketed your family’s funeral?” I ask as we drive off.

Shirley blurts without indecision, “If I had a dead child, the last thing I’d be concerned about is a bunch of picketers.” (Awkward thing to say in front of your own kids.) “My job is to make peace with God.”

“Have you ever been swayed in an argument?”

Shirley momentarily thinks. “Interesting enough, it was on a fag radio show.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘So, should we picket you? You failed him as a mother.’” The radio host was referring to Shirley’s estranged son Josh, who under the cover of darkness packed up four years ago, moved to Kansas City, and disassociated himself from the Westboro Baptist Church, recently becoming a father out of wedlock. On his Facebook profile it says, “To make a long story short, there’s too many good things, and life is too short to spend it hating someone.” Shirley’s mask lets down for a moment: “I didn’t fail him because I taught him the Scriptures.”

“Do you still talk to him?”

“No,” she says abruptly. “He hates God. He cut himself off.” (Pause.) “I know he’s drinking.”

“Will you ever see him again?”

The mother flashes through. Hesitant with her words, she legitimizes: “No!” (Pause.) “We taught our son all the doctrine, and he turned us back on it.”

“You going to carry that big sign, babe,” dad says to his curly-haired son wearing a green tie-dyed T-shirt, as assorted children joyously sprint for the pickup truck. I snatch FAG LAW SCHOOL (surely a bitter WBC personal vendetta).

“This was the very first message we ever had, GOD HATES FAGS,” the little curly-haired kid (is it Jonah or Joriah or Luke?) tells me with hyperenergy about his sign, though mentioning his favorite. “I like GOD HATES IEDS.”

The little kid starts going on about snow cones and the flavors he likes and doesn’t like, while the Phelps clan-all shapes and sizes-careen down the block and break into song.

“I love the song ‘God Hates America.’” The curly-haired kid’s eyes light up as music fills the busy intersection.

“What’s your favorite thing about picketing?” I ask the little guy.

He racks his little kid brain. ” I like when they drive by and yell things, cuz I like yelling back at them-the Truth!” (Pause.) “Have you heard of the Million Fag March? They march by our house and yell things.” Without benefit of a segue: “Have you heard about Brokeback Mountain? It’s a sick, disgusting movie.” (Pause.) “My mom told me about it.”

“Hey, Jonah,” interrupts Dad with a concerned tone. “Can I talk to you?”

My little amigo is whisked away, perhaps in fear he might say something that would embarrass the group.

The younger WBC members seem happy to have a fresh face to chat with, since the rest of the world must find them repulsive. (”Marvel not if the world hates you.”) Libby invites me to play in tomorrow afternoon’s family soccer game, asking permission first from an elder.

“I went to went to San Francisco when I was little for the fag parade,” she shares with more flirty excitement. “The police put us in the paddy wagon to protect us, cuz fags are violent!”

“How was the track meet?” I ask Shirley’s youngest daughter, now joining us.

“Awesome!” she gleams, now holding her message to the world, FAGS ARE WORTHY OF DEATH.

“She cutthirty seconds off her time.”

I try stirring things up by waving my sign vigorously. Still no honks. No flip-offs. Rarely do people yell, “Fuck off!” Westboro Baptist Church seems to have blended into the Topeka backdrop like a kitschy local absurdist theater. I image they’d be a local attraction you’d show gawking out-of-town visitors.

I keep taunting the message. Little kids keep talking about video games. Am I the only one taking this seriously?

“After you’ve been here for over a decade, people are kinda over themselves,” Shirley reasons.

The thrill is gone baby. The thrill is gone! Finally, finally, someone honks and gives the finger. “Fuckers, die!” they scream.

Ecstatic, I wave back and brightly smile.

“Mom! Can we go buy gumballs?” asks little Jonah, as we slowly walk back to the minivan.

“You need to practice for thirty minutes,” Shirley says, disciplining Jonah about his piano lessons.

A duplex by the minivan is now adorned with an American flag. A large woman stands in the driveway holding a flag, alongside a long-haired man wearing an American-flag bandana, an American-flag T-shirt, and American-flag baggy pants. Normally, I’d deem this bunch “scary,” except in this context, it’s refreshing.

Shirley mocks their display of free speech. “They sometimes put notes on the windshield of our cars,” she sneers. “They used to infiltrate our pickets and mingle among us. When they’d throw stuff at us, they’d hit them,” she laughs.

As we drive off, the patriotic couple gives the car in front of us the bird. Dad finds this funny. “He just flipped him off, and he’s not even with us!” (He says this twice.) 

“Where do you think the group will be ten years from now?” I ask Shirley.

“Ten years from now? That’s optimistic,” she scoffs, looking into the distance. “This won’t be going on ten years for now!”

“The bikers are getting madder and madder, openly threatening us, telling cops they’re going to kick our ass.” A multimillion-dollar judgment hangs over their heads. Funeral-picketing laws are being passed. Locals are less fazed by their presence. Increasingly their cruel message is being silenced by an outraged and disgusted America.

Besides, the world—according to Shirley—is coming to an end.

“We’ll have the Red Sea in front of us and the Romans at our back,” Shirley recites with a glint in her eye. “When 9/11 came, that said the words.”

And if Shirley happens to be taken out before then, certainly a higher power would have a reason for it.

“God’s will, right?”

“Exactly!”