Puttin’ the Moves on Pride


Here in Toronto, the City Without A Soul, where the terrible WAR ON CARS rages unabated – at least, according to the Neanderthals from the 905, who drink petroleum for breakfast and, although unable to cope with words greater than one syllable or concepts greater than one person, think nothing of simultaneously texting, reading the National Post and driving an SUV up Jarvis Street, all the while dragging that morning’s decapitated cyclist under the rear axle – and where an architecturally-significant Victorian pile like the James Cooper House can be bent over the kitchen table by developers, its voluminous petticoats lifted and a condo shoved up its ass —

it’s Pride Weekend.

You know. Gay Christmas. Will it be an Arnold Palmer Table-top Golf Set©? Or a lump of coal?

Your call, baby.

In the days leading up, I like to spend a little time getting in shape before that big ol’ parade passes by. (And you can just shut your trap, Barbra. This is MY moment for closure.)

Seriously, at my age you can’t spend too much time toning up. Especially since I hocked my diamonds. One needs a little – glitter and be gay – around the turkey-wattle, not to mention an emergency supply of drab turtlenecks from the fashion mausoleum that is logo_en.

(Re:  Diamonds.  That’s ticket 43b at McTamney’s Pawnbrokers, 139 Church. If anyone’s interested..?)

No point being bitter.

Please, please don't do this warm up without warming up.  Ow!

Please, please don’t do this warm up without warming up. Seriously.

So, in the spirit of sharing and caring that is the exquisitely-distilled essence of Pride, here’s a little taste of my warm-up routine. Just for you. Advanced, you cry?  Perhaps, but I guarantee that, once mastered, this little sucker of a move will blast your cares from here to Des Moines!

Now, before you all dash out in a frenzy to your graveled rooftops and start your reinforced gussets a-poppin’, a word of advice: Please, please don’t try getting in shape without warming up, will you?

Or without diamonds.

Promise?


(Half-hearted Photo Credit:  Photo so totally not by me, of me, or any-preposition-you-can-think-of, me.

I stole, sorry, re-purposed it and subjected it to inappropriate context and public derision.

It’s—what I do.)

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