I’d always thought of Apple as being synonymous with gay. A kind of new-worldly order.

Let’s face it, just about every queen, dyke, and fabulous et al has an iPhone, iPod and generally prefers Mac. There’s something progressive and schmick that speaks to urban GLBTI peeps. I realise I’m talking in stereotypes, but not without merit.

Just look at Grindr.

That was until the (now banned) Exodus ‘anti-gay’ app. Much like software you can get to filter Charlie Sheen’s ‘winning’ content from your digital life, this homophobic little gem touted it would cleanse your browsing experience of anything queer.

Now, they say you can get angry. Or you can get even.

Personally, I like the idea of an anti-bigot app. One which spares us from the lunacy of Christian extremists. One that quashes fundamentalist claptrap and bogan revtardary.

I was strangely compelled to follow that Phelps ratbag (Westboro Baptist Church) on Twitter recently. Given the disturbing rise in youth suicide, it strikes me as somewhat divisive to be disseminating prejudice and hatred via social media. What’s furthermore astounding — apart from the deluded tosh — is how many followers she has.

For those who don’t remember, this lot turns up at gay soldiers’ funerals with ‘God hates fags’ banners. Phelps tweeted they intended targeting Elizabeth Taylor’s service, on account of her work for HIV awareness. “A proud sinner,” Phelps labelled the icon.

Fortunately, they were a no-show.

I gave Grindr another whirl. The verdict? I still don’t like it. My phone is cluttered with dick pics and smut. Thirty messages, last time I checked. I’m not game to log back on.

Why are Grindr users so bloody desperate? Most of them are closet cases. No, I don’t want to ‘cum over’ while the wife’s out. Let’s catch up for coffee first and at least pretend there’s more to this than meaningless shagging. And no, I don’t want any more ‘horny cock shots’, you dirty little prick.

One guy kept popping up as five metres away. He suggested ‘slipping in quietly overnight’. I freaked. My stalker-o-meter blew a gasket. That’d be just the sort of thing that’d happen to me, I thought. My first real brush with Grindr and my molested body will be found in the Hawkesbury River in concrete shoes.

No thanks, fellas. I think I’ll stick to hounding the Westboro Baptist nutters on Twitter for now.

info: You can also follow Star Observer and Damien Stephens on Twitter: @damientweeting

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