Monday, June 18, 2007
Yay, it's time for gay.
Hello, how are you. I am feeling SO MUCH BETTER. Whoa, you should’ve smelled my shirt after I met with my dad on Friday. It was super sweaty, and boy, did it STINK. I should probably stop eating so much meat and Chick-o-sticks. Who am I kidding… Chick-o-sticks are so delicious I don’t care if I smell like the inside of a pig’s leather loafer. Naturally, I kind of felt like a jerk for falsely accusing my dad of trying to ruin my life… but should I really feel happy that he didn’t CARE enough to ruin my life? Patriarchal feelings can be so complicated.
Anywow, I’ve decided to pull the stick of self-doubt and loathing out of my b-hole (Pardon my French) and start loving life again! And that means putting on…
MY PARTY PANTS!
Everyone should have a pair of party pants. Do YOU? Mine are dark maroon, have a very sensual texture and are made out of 100 percent polyester. I’ve never had another pair of pants like them! They are a LOT like the costume Venom wears in the Spider-Man comics. I swear to dad, these pants fit me like a symbiotic life form! (Don’t worry—they don’t turn into Venom.) Anyway, today I was feeling so relieved, I put on my party pants, and my “Jesus is Coming—Look Busy!” T-shirt, and went downtown to buy some helium balloons. (Do you ever buy yourself helium balloons? YOU SHOULD.)
So I was walking downtown in my party pants, t-shirt, and carrying helium balloons when suddenly someone leaned out of a bar window and yelled at me, “WHOO! WHOO! GAY PRIDE!!”
Naturally, I yelled “whoo, whoo” back—even though I am not a gay. Though like many people, I do have "a gay friend" (Derek… he’s a cop)—and he is delightful. Here’s what I like about gay people: they are ENTHUSIASTIC. This may be why people often ask me if I’m gay (though I’m sure my party pants add to the illusion). I do things enthusiastically, and that’s often confusing for macho guys who have been taught to do things unenthusiastically. I mean, just because I’ve been known to walk down my street banging a big bass drum, and singing songs from the musical “Oklahoma,” why should people also automatically infer that I’m having sex with a gay person? It’s like saying, “Oh, he’s eating an orange. That must mean he’s an astronaut.”
But just so we’re clear, I don’t mind if people call me a gay. I just think it’s weird when people assume things—like just because I’ve walked on water, it doesn’t mean that their prayers for a new motorcycle will be answered. It just means that I know how to play a magic trick.
Anyway, I ended up going into the bar and drinking Frescas with these gay guys for the rest of the afternoon. AND THEY WERE SO MUCH FUN! Everything was “fabulous” to them, and life was obviously something they all enjoyed very much. I didn’t even mind when one of them pinched my tuckus! (PMF.)
So that’s my advice for this week: Put on your party pants, hang around with some gays, and learn to love life again! (And eat three fewer Chick-o-Sticks. They make you sweat yellow.)