Marcus Bachmann is a straight man. I would be willing to bet that he goes home every night and bangs his crazy-eyed wife, presidential-hopeful Michele Bachmann. Sure he cries afterward, but it has nothing to do with the fact that vaginas repulse him or that he misses Claudio, his college roommate.
After totally-hot sex with his wife, Mr. Bachmann heads to dreamland. And you know what he dreams about, yep, you guessed it, Jesus. No, not his bronzed, sweaty, 6'5, Hispanic pool boy, I mean Jesus, the son of God.
After a restful eight-hours, where he doesn't have even one dream about performing in a Village-People cover band, he gets up and goes to work at his Christian-counseling clinic.
Now let me make this clear, this clinic is absolutely not a gay-to-straight camp. Mr. Bachmann knows that people can't pray away the gay, they have to shove it in the nearest closet behind a pair of size-12 stilettos and some back copies of the magazine, Uncut.
After a long day's work, Mr. Bachmann goes home and hops in the shower, eager to wash all his problems away. While he's in there, he does what every normal person does, he sings. But he is definitely not singing Abba's "Dancing Queen."
After a shower and some dinner, Mr. Bachmann finds himself back in the embrace of his loving wife, Michele. He looks at her with passion in his eyes and asks if she would mind watching Spartacus while they make love. She obliges, like a good, submissive wife, and Mr. Bachmann consummates his completely-real marriage, while a nearly-nude Kirk Douglas flashes on the screen in front of him.
Post-coitus, Mr. Bachmann pulls a Marlboro Ultra-Light from a bejeweled cigarette case. He puffs it slowly, drawing the smoke into his throat like Claudio taught him all those years ago. Some may call this display almost homoerotic, but they would be wrong.
Because Marcus Bachmann is a super-straight man.