Famed Anti-Death Activist Fred Phelps is Ironically Dying

It’s a tragic day for many in the anti-death community, as one of the movement’s greatest heroes, and arguably, its founder, lays ironically on his death bed. Fred Phelps, a name that is largely synonymous with funeral protestation and the pro-infinite-life movement, will soon be dead.

“When the doctor told us what was happening, we couldn’t believe it,” says a follower posted outside of Phelps hospital room. “I mean, dying? That’s the last thing he wanted. Why couldn’t it have been something else?”

Phelps’ humble beginnings start in a racially charged 1960’s Kansas, where he worked hard as a civil rights lawyer to abolish Jim Crow laws. Phelps was strongly opposed to segregation, and he would often demonstrate his opposition by sucking off African American patrons of segregated dining establishments. “If they can’t eat with me,” he would chant, “then I’m eating for free!”

Now, 40 years later, a withered Phelps lies in his death bed, surrounded by the men who loved him. They take turns passionately kissing him on the lips and body. “Ah, this feels so good,” whispers Phelps through the static crackling of his death rattle.

As a conservative Christian, Phelps holds the unpopular belief that life begins at ejaculation, and now as modern medicine is failing him, he is asking his congregation to anoint his body with life giving semen.

“Everyone jack off on me,” he whispers. His followers form a perfect circle around the death bed and cover the dying man in ejaculate. Phelps takes a big whiff as he is blanketed in semen. “Mmm. Smells like freshly cut grass and pancake batter,” he says as his eyes well with tears and cum. “I can feel the power of Christ and my boyhood youth flowing through me.”

With the help of two orderlies, Phelps lifts himself up in bed and attempts to roll over. The orderlies prop up his pelvis with several pillows, and they remove an oversized black crucifix from his anus. “Fill me up good boys, I’m gonna need a lot where I’m going,” he barks. One by one, the men mount and penetrate Phelps. “Ah, yeah. Don’t be afraid to be rough. I’ve still got some fight in me.” He wraps his dry lips around the crucifix for a second, and then removes it. “Somebody pull my hair.” A young man complies as Phelps puts the crucifix back in his mouth.

It’s only a matter of time now. Shortly, a man who spent his entire life fighting against the evils of death will become one of its victims. As I look down at his frail body and watch it expand and contract under the immense weight of several burly men, I can’t help but question one of life’s cruel ironies.

Why is it that we become what we most fear?