I live with a gay, American, intelligent gangsta

Dear zealous small-coffee-biz folks, I must confess: I am currently patronizing Starbucks for their t-mobile wi-fi (tangential advice to future New Yorkers: in the fourth largest city in the world, I have better luck getting calls by styrofoam cup and psychic energy than with with my t-Mobile cell service), and overheard the man at the next table saying this:
“Americans CAN’T DEAL… with sodomy.”
McGreevey in the house. Thank you, strange man, for encapsulating the root of our current domestic clusterfuxx: Americans can’t deal with sodomy. Steven, my favorite sodomist, has taken to the phrase “I am a gay American.” I dig it; has this sweeping, Olympics-commercial “successories” ring; very Affirmative Action. The California Supreme Court gets a special lo-fi condo in H-e-double hockey sticks. California Supreme Court, go suck a cock.
[Sorry for all the Christo-centric damnation talk; I’m just emotionally preparing myself for GOD’S SON—who rips a nasssty line about HETERO sodomy in “You Know My Style”— in two hours. (Actual track is fairly ‘naners, bumps hips with that bare-bones jingle/riding-the-cochlear-vortex production like Young Gunz “Can’t Stop Won’t Stop,” except not lyrically asinine. Nas is number-one most-requested this weekend on Hot 97, for those keeping track.)]
Get a load of my stream of consciousness swing: this Americano shit is the juice.