The title of the article says it all - Utah Education Blogger Says He Was Fired For 'Promoting A Gay Agenda' After Writing About Homophones. The blogger in question is Tim Torkildson, and he wrote about the firing in another blog, of course - The Homophones Got Me! A Record of a Recent Firing. In the manner of a journalist, he wrote in clear, plain language about the firing, especially the exchange between him and his boss. Then he slipped into wonderful, novelistic language:
He rose, shook my hand, and left the conference room where we had been sitting.
I was out the door, at the bus stop, by 11:05.
After depositing my check at the bank I walked home along the Provo River Path. It was warm, but isolated thunderheads kept the sun in check. The river is low and smells of sewers. Trout are frantically leaping up the spillway by the Columbia Lane Bridge. Dozens of swallows have built their nests under the bridge; they describe wide, frantic circles and give high peeps when they land at their mud-daubed nests. It was pleasant to stop there – now that I have all the time in the world again.
Further along the path is a wild cherry tree growing up from the bank of the river. Underneath the cherry tree is a green wire bench installed by the Parks and Recreation Department. I sat down to rest there. The cherries are dead ripe and falling onto the pathway, where they are mashed by pedestrians and bicyclists. Wasps stay busy feeding on the sweet pulp. A homeless man, shouldering a towering backpack, his white beard stained brown with tobacco juice, came striding by, stepping right into the pulp and riling the wasps. One of them stung him. He turned to me, holding up a tree branch he was using as a walking stick, and cried “You bit me!”
I did not try to defend myself. Somehow, it seemed just about right – done in by a crazy old bum with a tree branch. But he lowered it slowly and turned back to his odyssey, mumbling obscenities. I continued to sit there another ten minutes, then slowly got up and went back to my room underneath the basement steps of a friend’s house, where I am writing this. I promised him I would be out of his house by the end of August. Maybe I should have followed the bum; he seemed to know where he was going.
When one door closes, it’s usually right on your fingers.If he hasn't yet, Torkildson ought to write a novel. He has a talent for it.