“Mon pays ce n’est pas un pays, c’est l’hiver …” {Holiday Special, Part I:- I’m Dreaming of a Whitey Christmas}

xmas tree2Very merry happy holidays. It’s the fag-end of

2017, the annus horribilis that saw me narrowly escaping eviction from my home;

Brought my first, and, I guarantee, my last, summons in the name of Her Majesty The Queen to Estreat Court (a special royal garden party, but without the fruity hats and crustless sandwiches, for those who’ve put up bail for their loser friends—only to have the loser friends break their conditions of bail, leaving them at large, and us, their hapless gaolers, in the Superior Court of Justice, undergoing public humiliation for our idiocy in believing that anything would change, ever);

And, naturally, or my name ain’t Murgatroyd McGraw, continued my death-by-roommate via a graduating class of seven new specimens so feckless, so untruthful, so institutionalized in their freaky, senseless behavior and coddled pre-teen expectations, that it’s either a case of

a.  I have the world’s worst bad judgement, or

b.  I’m the problem and should probably move out.

(It wouldn’t be the first time that I’ve thought: maybe it’s ME. Or, as expressed by the last roommate, who—having been taken on in order to help me pay the rent on time, never paid the rent on time, then absconded on November 3rd having paid no rent—texted me and said:

“Stop blaming everyone else for your problems”.

You know, and can I just say, seriously.  I’m NOT blaming him or anyone for my problems, which are as the stars in the heavens, so numberless they be. I AM blaming him for HIS problem, which is not paying the rent on time.

Yes, no?)

Two thousand seventeen was the year of a whole new cast of fairy-tale characters, Germanic as genocide and grimmer than Grimm: der Führer des neuen amerikanischen Reiches, Herr TRUMPF and his gnädige Frau Melania; and, as the corresponding Shakespearean low-comedy couple, though it’s hard to see how much lower you could get: Wicked Killary, who eats dead babies for tea in her root cellar, naked, seated on a pile of moist, yellowing e-mails; and Obama Satanica, black as coals at midnight, who fucks the babies to death for her with his scaly, forked devil-dick.

I ask you. Could anything be more plausible?  Now, eat your spinach or they’re coming to get you.

It was the year when Truth raised its fuzzy little newborn head, took one look at the orange glow emanating from the Oval Office and died in its cot, and when the real news was more unreal than the fake; a year when child molestors ran cheerfully for office while every third male in the civilized world was unmasked as nothing more than a small, unruly penis dragging along an eight-armed sociopath; and the year, though it feels so very much longer, when Bernie Sanders flailed his arms a lot and blamed everyone else for his problems.

(Hint to Bernie:  It’s your fucking dandruff, you deal with it.)

Meanwhile it’s cold as fuddle-duddle in Toronto, North Korea keeps saying “war”, with the same unnerving conviction as a two-year-old calling everyone “dada”, and it’s our first white Christmas in a few years.

For the White House, it’s the first Whitey Christmas in a while, too; because, hallelujah, Trump has reinstated Christmas, snatched the twenty-fifth December—originally, I believe, a pagan solstice celebration—from the dark, heathen hands of Hussein and “Mike”.allanGardensSnow


Don’t bother to point out that the Obamas had a Christmas tree, offered Christmas good wishes and Christmas prayers and all the Christmas trimmings every year for eight years, with no interruption.  The Facebook commenters are adamant:  “It’s so good to see a Christmas tree in the White House again!”

Every fucking one of them.  It is astonishing, and not a little frightening, to see a bunch of people so convinced against all evidence to the contrary—real, tangible, watch it, listen to it, touch it evidence, on video, on the net, in print—of a complete lie.

Even, presumably, the guy who gushed:  “It’s so wonderful to see the Negativity Scene [sic] in our nation’s capital again!”

You couldn’t make shit like that up.


White Christmas.  Genuine, ankle-to-knee-deep snow,

howling Wuthering Heights wind at night, at sunrise snow-silence and at the horizon a veil of pink and blue.

People don’t like snow any more, because it’s inconvenient, it requires work, it slows you down.  They don’t get snow:  snow on pine trees, snowmen, snow angels, packin’ snow for Roberston Davies’ snowball fights; and fluffy, fresh snow like icy down, each flake, yes it’s true, every single billionth one a different, perfect crystal.

They don’t get winter: Have they never heard tree branches glazed with thick transparent ice creaking like tall ships in the wind, never squinted in pain from the diamond ferocity of light reflecting off a kajillion flakes piled high as a nine-year-old, never tried to open the front door in the morning to find snow has drifted two-thirds of the way up and felt that anarchic, school’s-cancelled joy?

People die in the snow.  That’s also true.

As a child, you awaken one morning, maybe in November, to ethereal silence and silvery light: snow, you think, with a little thrill, and you rush to the window to confirm your prediction, see the cherry tree by moonlight cast indigo shadows on steel-blue drifts. It takes an hour to get dressed for school, in the semi-dark, and your mother makes porridge—oatmeal or Red River or Cream of Wheat—and you walk to school like a plump little Michelin man, you walk to school by yourself, and at lunch time you come home and have Campbell’s tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich.

They don’t get winter, any more than they get that you don’t eat turkey at Easter or asparagus in December, or that you don’t need “rapid oatmeal” made in the microwave which takes the same time as cooking it on the stove, but less attention and care;

They don’t get that you don’t respond to an invitation to dinner with, “I don’t know, what are you making?” (It’s not about “dinner”, lughead, and I’m not McDonald’s; it’s about spending time with each other, but the concept of “other” doesn’t register with you, and your mind immediately goes to: “what’s in this for me?”);

They don’t get that you don’t respond to “Thank you” with the rejoinder “no praaaahblem!”

My long-suffering friends reading this can go powder their noses, but if you’ve just arrived: Can I tell you my praaaahblem with “no praaaaahblem“?

I say to you, “Thank you.” I’ve offered something to you: acknowledgement that you’ve made an effort, perhaps even a small sacrifice, for my comfort.  Graciousness.

You say to me, “You’re welcome.”  You’ve offered something back to me:  “What I did was not a burden, it was a pleasure.”  Graciousness back, “you” and “you”.  A circle of grace, each person focused on the other.

But say to me, “No praaaaahblem!!” and the circle does not complete.  “It was no problem [for ME”].  It was not a problem, to do what I did.  So you got lucky this time.  But what I did has nothing to do with you.  Maybe someday – it will be a problem, so watch yourself, Murgatroyd.”


The primary Canadian personality trait is fortitude.

We don’t expect leadership by default, universal deference, or prizes for the biggest, tallest, best.  We don’t expect the world to jump at our command or dance to our tune.

We expect to survive.

The oldest of us, which would include me these days, know that the rhythms of nature are tsunamis that, indifferent to our preposterous schedules and self-importance, erase human certainty.

With one good blast of snow, one nostril-searing sniff of icy air, one three-hour traffic jam, cancelled flight or broken ankle, you are permanently relieved of

the touching belief that everything is about you.



Eye-candy is not entitlement, boys.

“Wearing this to work is #sexual harassment!” proclaims the tweet.

“It’s not other women you’re teasing!”

It’s been published by a young male; the accompanying photograph (left) ostensibly shows a female worker in what might be an office environment (or possibly a brothel somewhere in New Jersey, potato, potato, pronounced differently).

She’s a tasty brunette, as you can see, tall, long-haired and leggy. Curiously, two-thirds of her face is missing, which is either to preserve her anonymity, or which may simply indicate that anything above her neck is of  minimal interest, but you can still tell she’s Melania-beautiful, read, exotic; and her tall, leggy, Melania-beauty is more than a little revealed by a mini-skirt —

—is that what they still call them? I was around for the first one, Rudi Gernreich was the designer, I believe, or was it Mary Quant? and it seems a desperately long time ago —

— and a sheer blouse with a plunging neckline displaying more than a single eyeful of toys-for-needy-boys cleavage.

I’m gay, by the way.

The point of this tweet, also hash-tagged #WarOnMen, seems to be that any man skewered by the glance of this radiant smiling siren, who is clearly out for career advancement and willing to go the mile in displays of leg and cleavage to achieve this, would be a victim himself of sexual harassment.

#WarOnMen. First cousin of #StraightPride.

#StraightPride is a ludicrous concept because every day is straight pride; #WarOnMen is ludicrous because men aren’t being outed just because they’re men; not all men are being outed.

Just the ones who behaved like pigs.

Now, I’m all for shades of grey, and cutting guys some slack, and guys being hot for women. It makes the world go round, not that I would know from direct personal experience, but hey. You can’t always partition your brain into “sexual” and “non-sexual” components at will; sex seeps into everything.

But eye-candy is not entitlement. And it is painfully apparent from the current outings of sexual misconduct that men, a lot of men, need to learn self-control, and to stop blaming women for their own failings.

Self-control is not a small achievement for a man. But learning self-control is part of becoming a man, not remaining an eternal teenager; it’s an essential marker of a guy’s maturity.

As the allegations of shameful male behavior pile up, I ask myself: whatever happened to, as it was called in my day, being a gentleman?

Being a gentleman was something fathers or male mentors taught to boys and young men. It was a code that was unwritten, in other words, a cultural phenomenon, and that means it had to be taught by example; absorbed.

Do as I do.

Being a gentleman was a code of conduct based on, first of all, respect for women — that was its bedrock and raison d’être; and though it undoubtedly had sexist thinking behind it then, there is no need for respect to be sexist, no need at all. Respect is always relevant.

Courtesy, and appropriate, dignified behavior, that’s how it manifested; but being a gentleman was a whole concept and not at all stuffy or unmanly. Its insistence on respect for women allowed flirtation within its firm boundaries; it tacitly acknowledged that male sexuality is potentially dangerous, unruly, and has to be contained, and must be contained by any man aspiring to be considered civilized.

(Being considered civilized was something we cared about. Talk about quaint!)

Being a gentleman also embodied civil discourse and restrained speech, concepts that required listening with sincere interest to opposing viewpoints, rather than reacting with shouted obscenities like a spoiled, thwarted child. It required working knowledge of culture; art and music and current events; it revelled in quick wit and intelligence.

But primary and forefront, respect for women.

Where did it go, being a gentleman?

gawd, I feel old.

Woebegone, be gone…

This one hurts.

Guess who turned out to be a jerk when the ladies are around?

I have, because of l’affaire Keillor, broken out in a severe case of Wagner Syndrome.

Wagner Syndrome consists of a nasty rash and a splitting headache that go on for about twenty-three hours, along with a tendency to fall asleep, then awaken with a little yelp to find it’s only two minutes later.

All that, plus:

  • the cognitive dissonance created by being lost in admiration for a sublime, or a great, or even a merely pretty good, work of art;
  • aggravated by, despite one’s ethical and moral concerns, admiring the supreme skill, or above-average talent; the numinous creative genius, or the rather amusing fratboy cleverness, that created it;
  • and at the same time realizing that the man creating it was, in Wagner’s case, an anti-semite, a foul inexcusable spouter of hateful bigotry; or
  • in l’affaire Keillor, a common-or-garden asshole, at least part of the time, or at least part of the time a pathetic, ageing “isn’t that just like a man” jerk.

And jerk is plenty bad enough.

Keillor waffles; he put his hand on his friend’s bare back to comfort her, he says, but then “my hand was six inches up her back”. That’s not a shade of grey.

Keillor worries that the world will be a dull and joyless place when the day arrives that men can no longer paw women with impunity and call it “flirting”.

Sexual assault and flirting are not synonyms.

There’s a lot of static currently about this so-called “War on Men”, so let me remind you of a legal concept.  In fact, don’t believe me, believe this interpretation of Section 256 of the Canadian Criminal Code; the section on assault. Two factors in particular are important in proving assault: intention, and force. And regarding force, I read the following:

An assault includes “the least of touching” without consent. The amount of force used is not material.

The amount of force used is not material. It’s the least of touching without consent.  Assault.  We already agree on this; it’s common law, it was common law before “feminism” was a word.

War on men?  Well, then, let me ask you this: If men hold positions of power, and have always done, and continue to do so, and continue to use their power to discount, degrade and assault women—what choice have women left but war?


In Defence of Deviance

Toronto’s PRIDE 2017 celebrated diversity and inclusion. Yet some people—even some gay men—still think that’s a shame.

Men, men, men!  Not a flicker of humor in a back room full of us!  Forever shooting our wads, then rolling away from the damp spot and falling asleep; forever forgetting that ejaculation is for Christmas, but a snuggle is for life.

trudeau pride

Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau at the Toronto Pride Parade, June 25, 2017.  [From MSN.com]

I’ve come fresh from Pink News online, the British gay rag that’s the equivalent of Canada’s Xtra (but with better fashion and that string of pearls that you didn’t buy at Winners, but inherited from Great-Aunt Prunella) where the headline read—and you may want to sit down for this bit, lest you collapse onto your vitrine filled with Lalique crystal—

Men tell homophobic jokes because of their own fragile masculinity, study finds.

Well, slice me to ribbons under the Queen streetcar!  That gem ranks as news right up there with “Sun Rises in East” and “Dog Bites Intruder, Then Pees on Carpet”.

Personally, I’m gobsmacked.

So imagine our surprise when a whole Ford F-150-full of fragile masculine egos came out to defend themselves against the “feminists” who designed and conducted the study.

madonna quote(Feminist in this context fulfills the same function as Nazi does elsewhere, describing as it does not an actual specimen of the genre but a scarecrow, only dressed up in dungarees and a tool belt instead of black leather and jackboots;  and instead of translating as “someone I disapprove of on principle”, it reads, “women I’m extra scared of”.)
Take a gander, or maybe a gender, at this response:

The folks who are most threatened and defensive are the writers and editors at PN who relentlessly push effeminacy and gender deviance whilst denigrating traditional masculinity and manhood. It’s almost as if they know that they are failures as men and want to use sexual orientation as an excuse. But decades of studies have shown that effeminacy manifests only in a minority of gay and bi men. So sexual orientation is no excuse for their personal failure to function as men.

And here’s my response to that :

“Gender deviance”? Holy Krafft-Ebing,

where’s my laudanum? I may have an attack of the vapours!


Pride 2014 / Photo by David Roddis.

I did live in Britain for 16 years and I read Pink News all the time. But that was pre-Internet, so perhaps their relentless pushing of effeminacy was less effective; I’m pretty sure I have at least half a testicle lying around somewhere.

A man is a man is a man, to rewrite Gertrude Stein; if you got the right bits and feel comfortable with them, that’s all it takes. If you don’t feel comfortable with them, that’s called “gender dysphoria” according to the bible of psychiatric diagnosis, the DSM-5, and the word dysphoria in the new edition refers to the anxiety caused by SOCIETAL pressures and the prejudice coming from those who do not accept “deviance” – and what an extraordinarily, umm, nostalgic word choice, by the way.

Nostalgic, or bathetic to the point of laughter, conjuring up as it does the kind of sleazy soft porn novels my dad would have read in the ’50s: “They’re wild! They’re dangerous! They’re: DEVIANT DAUGHTERS!”

But back to your ridiculousness: Men learn how to be men; it’s not innate and it’s not written somewhere in a manual. We learn from fathers, mentors, leaders, heroes (and sometimes the wrong heroes: the most superficially impressive instead of the wisest).

The problem is evident: We men more often than not learn from walking, talking, blustering, posturing models of manhood who have mastered nothing but bravado. We think they’re the reference, but in fact they’ve had a few of the most important pages ripped out.

It’s as though we’re seated at a formal dinner and, at a loss, look to the distinguished older guy on our right; then, following his brave example, we mix our petits pois with the mashed potatoes, then shovel them in with the grapefruit spoon.

Not pretty.

To call a man a failure because he does not fulfill your checklist of “real manhood” tells us perhaps a bit more than you would have us know. That checklist is nothing other than plain old garden-variety homophobia — dressed up in its “Disgusted, Tunbridge Wells” best, maybe, but homophobia all the same.

Normal is the average of deviance — Rita Mae Brown

In fact, what you have angrily and perversely crossed off your list is exactly what a man needs: everything you label “effeminate”. But a tablespoon, or more, of “effeminacy” does a man good. Women, you might have noticed, have a refining effect on men; or perhaps their presence helps men lower their guard and discover their own sensitivity, intuition, esthetic sense, all those things we’re taught to push aside by other men who are afraid and unsure of themselves.

So, put a little more mascara on, sweetie.  Slip into your silk peignoir and take a night off. I hereby relieve you of what must be a thankless, lonely burden: of being the self-appointed arbiter of what’s butch.  Us real men will decide that for ourselves.

Real men are works in progress, and we haven’t explored even the first ten percent of what we might become.


Dedicated to every drag queen in
plexiglass pumps who ever threw shade;

every Quentin Crisp who “didn’t know how to
be any other way”; and

to the little boy who chose the Kewpie Doll
as his prize at the fair—me.

Never change.


Pride 2014 / Photos by David Roddis

» Link to the Pink News article  (opens in a new window)

I think my being poor is the result of gluten sensitivity. ‘Cause it couldn’t be the Rooneys.

Many so-called people, perhaps even

you, seem stuck on the extremely random idea that the reason I have no money is that I don’t have a job.

This is the kind of low-life, white trash, neo-liberal cant I’m forced to deal with these days.

The mouth-breathers who spout this kind of nonsense, when not being Heimlich’d after inhaling Cracker-Jack toys or having spittle wiped off their chins by a member of the Victorian Order of Nurses, are so hyper-retarded that, come election time in the fifty-third state, they’ll be holding hands and scampering down the oil-slicked beaches, dodging the spire of the CN Tower, and do-si-do-ing around the tar-dipped walrus carcasses—all the while illuminated by the occasional incendiary pelican or flaming gannet—before swanning into the pale-skinned-and-rich-people-only polling station to register their TrumpVote® for the fifth time.

gluten free

This is the face of gluten-sensitivity-based poverty.  Not pretty!

And there He’ll be, all monkey glands and Teflon sinews, hand on His mechanical Frankenstein heart, facing all the wrong directions and warbling “Up, up and away in my beautiful, my beautiful balloon”, which He will have announced via Twitter as the new ‘Murican national anthem.

And who would notice?   Exactly.

Anyway.  Being poor is something that just befell me, swooshing down like the petrified trunk of a giant sequoia released from its crane to pound my cranium to blini-like thinness. My poverty is only too obviously the result of a sensitivity to gluten. Or gender dysphoria.

I’d have included PTSD, before all those spots were taken by millennials who’d just discovered the existence of another person.

I haven’t been eating my acai berries all that regularly either, mainly because I have no idea how to pronounce them, which is why I kind of preferred pomegranate week. But really, what could be a more likely culprit than gluten. Whatever gluten is!

Mostly we don’t know, but are ecstatic to have something, anything, around whose doorway we can trail the withered vine of our failings, psychological, physical and even moral. (Whatever moral is!)  If we had known about gluten at the dawn of civilization, what feats might we have achieved, what disasters averted!

Imagine: If Genghis Khan and Alexander and General MacArthur and a few of the testier popes, and maybe their wives and kids, or even Charles Manson, could have chilled out, dude, on some kasha, maybe, or hungry-man portions of teff pudding served in elephant-tusk bowls, I sense that history would be different—possibly with a few million more people around, and none of them screaming.

But, alas.  From village oven to Wonderbread factory, slathered with yak butter or smeared with Nutella—which, like Heinz Ketchup, has a shelf-life apparently designed to survive interplanetary travel—we’ve stuffed our maws with the staff of life only now to discover, too late, that we’ve been falling, not flying.

And I think what most of us regret, considering all our gluten-dogged efforts have been futile on this Airbus to Doom, is setting our alarm clocks earlier so we could get up and “change the world” or even just “be more productive.”  That’s certainly two hours I’ll never get back!

Anyway.  So here I am, trapped in this severely gluten-sensitive poverty cycle—and you’re damn right I’m wanting just a wee bit of sympathy—a cycle which gives me WAAAAY too much time to think about if I’m the right gender, though I must admit I do keep asking myself: the right gender for what?

And the bloating! Oi ve voy! My distended belly has to be seen to be believed, unless it’s not actually coeliac disease at all, but phantom pregnancy.

Whoa! Gender dysphoria suddenly at peak levels!

With the “no-job” myth debunked, I find my brain cells pumped and the veins in my temples throbbing fit to bust as I tackle other, more mysterious problems, like: Who are these vaguely familiar people in my house?  They keep saying “roomie”, though for a while I thought they were saying “Rooney” and was faint with hope that one of them would maybe sing the descant part to “That’s Entertainment!”

On that strictly empirical basis, then: A roomie is the person who barges in, eats all your food and then disappears, leaving you with a pile of dirty dishes, high blood pressure, sand on the bathroom floor, broken glass in the hallway, and an eviction hearing, ’cause they hope you’ll forget about the rent while re-applying your BandAid.

Roomie is qualitatively different from fake-friend, cause a fake-friend slips through the doorway but never barges in, and never leaves; a fake-friend will forget to give you a birthday present and never just “give you the money instead”.

Like a church roof that shines bright copper once its oxidised patina of green is stripped away, I can occasionally break through my thin coating of despair with a gleaming ray of hope. Is amnesia all it takes?

Then I would encourage both of you, roomie and fake-friend, to work yourselves up to forgetting where I live, and after even a single day of blessed silence and solitude, I and the black-suited minions at the Assisted Suicide Council will be happy to send you a medal.

Expect to pay C.O.D.


All About the Eve of Destruction +PLUS+ Finally: The Gay Agenda so REVEALED to make your jaw!?? drop!?!???!! UNBELIEVABLE??!! (with half-hearted extra special bonus Gay Porn Titles of the Week)


So many roommates… so little time…

Tick tock tick tock  Time goes by… so slowly…  

except when it accelerates, like the last weekend of summer scudding into the chilly shadows of responsibility and consequences. I face the dark-suited members of the Rent Tribunal on Monday at noon. For the little matter of my

being late with the rent for four months.  In a row.

Lest you think this is serious, let me bray with defiant laughter as I tell you about the 10 years previous that I was NOT late with the rent, and do they count for nothing?  Am I only as good as my last performance?

Let me tell you about every month paid up within the month, and if that doesn’t herald the advent of pull-up pants and a Beatrix Potter training spoon, what does?

Let me enlighten you about a shadowy global conspiracy: a secret underground organization dedicated to the provisioning of bad roommates, that allegorical repletion of vapid millennials who stand, like the self-styled “Phoebe” in the last shot of All About Eve, smirking the smirk of the damned as they clutch the object of their desire: my now-turned-brass-monkey balls, rendered cold and sterile as a witch’s twat.

Scene:  The final smirking Phoebe struts offstage, having effected my spiritual collapse, but I manage to lift my aging goomer* head, as always, to croak:


Oi ve voy.  Next is Mr. March, who goes mid-month to visit grandma’s house, tra-la, tra-lay, and is eaten by a wolf.

I’m just guessing about the wolf, but his cheery goodbye is the last I see of him.  He doesn’t return with the April rent, he doesn’t answer the phone,  and when I message him online the message is immediately marked “read”, which I immediately understand as meaning:  “read by his captors”.  He’s vanished. Is he abducted? Intervened? Amnesiac? Done in? Do I care anymore?  Next!

The next, current iffy choice gets arrested before moving in, which leads me to take on his iffy one-night-stand girlfriend as roomie – anyone, darling, anyone will do! – only, miracle of miracles, the current one turns up again, released on bail!   It’s rainin’ iffy roomies!

Too bad I wrote to the welfare office to cancel his funding!  Does it get any better?  You bet it does!  To wit:-

I was snarky with my friend.  I told my snark, my friend did end. Oops!

Cast your memory back, if you will, to the night before my appearance at Estreat Court, a mediaeval label for a joyless public shaming which currently does not involve entrails and a wheel, but rather a sharp slap on the wrist from Your Honor for my failure to hunt down my other friend—for I have learned to rotate them so as not to wear them out so quickly—and frog-march him to 51 Division.  I imagine holding my torch triumphantly aloft as I do so, like one of the villagers in Frankenstein.

My hapless friend, for whom I was surety, broke on a July Friday the promises he made to Her Majesty forty-eight hours before, leaving me holding the bag of hapless.  He’s just been released after serving his sentence, which tells me that four months at large plus a whole cartload of drugs in your possession yields thirteen months in captivity for lack of stick-to-it-tivity, it’s right there in the Charter!

This is my failure, what I could not imagine, try as I might:  “Halt, vile absconder! Peace Officer Roddis commands you to accompany him forthwith to the common gaol!”  Elmer Fudd, in drag, could issue this order with more red-meated authority than I.

But I digress.  That fateful night before my estreation – a word I just made up – I call out my other friend – that’s friend number 1, if you’re keeping track, and you really should – on some supremely prissy judgements he’s making about surety friend (#2).  I get, in Dorothy Parker’s words, the frankies.

I am frank with him.  High as a kite frank.  Snarky frank.

I snark at him via text, “Are you by any chance turning into one of those Tut, tut – aren’t I wonderful tut tut aren’t they a loser sanctimonious bores?  Because it sure sounds like it.” It starts there and builds to delirious, Wagnerian levels.

I’m on a roll. I tell them in no uncertain terms and I lay down the law, then for extra measure I give them a piece of my mind.  I hesitate, drawing my snark warmly about me—then press “Send”.

Immediately I regret it.   I work through the night, feeling vaguely nauseated about my toxic SMS and ponder my obnoxious sense of humor. Maybe I should have added an “LOL”? Maybe a couple?

At the proper time, I don my estreating clothes and head to court.

It is during our court break time from being estreated when I get a text from snarked friend conveying his offense at my snark and announcing, as drama queens do, be they gay or str8, his intent to block my number.

Block my number!?  Holy Facebook, it’s Mean Girls, but – with boys!  What will they think of next?  Flavor drops for water?

Turns out he’s been holding a grudge for two years about the time I snapped at him while he was stripping some paint in my dining room.  Two years!  I manage an apology, the one that sounds sincere on a good day, but snark friend telephonically storms off in a sanctimonious huff for, in the end, it’s str8 dudes who are the sensitive ones, not us tough-as-nuts gays.  Lordy, no!

So, two years ago I snapped and said something cunty. “WhatEVERRRRR!” I think, in tune with the Mean Girls vibe. Who will cut me a great big bleeding side of slack? Not he!

But how will he survive without my Sunday psychotherapy as he upgrades his fifth simultaneous house, texting me hysterically to complain: “We dropped the chandelier while installing it.  Now we’re going to have to have a crystal specially made!”

OK, fine, WhatEVERRRRR. Block my number, honorary Heather-cum-Holly-Golightly! Off you go lightly, back to your bitch mistresses, at least the ones who are female.

Here, take your pick, old pal:  Lie in the bony death-clutch of the shrieking crack-banshee from hell, or loll in the dull-as-ditchwater snuffle of your tediously faithful high-school sweetheart as you sing the Sesame Street Songbook.

For whoever the fuck it may be this week who tells you “come to Momma”, they can’t prevent me blowing, in your general direction, what may sound like a kiss.


My verdict from Estreat Court:  Her Majesty commands me forthwith to top up her already bulging coffers with fifty bucks, not five hundred.  No good deed goes unpunished, but Her Majesty knows a really good deed when she sees one, and punishes me just enough.


Apart from all that, pretty  uneventful.  Maybe I should get friend number two to move in with the guy on bail?

Yes, no?

You remember that “Gay Agenda” the right is always on about?

Well, I found this week’s update. It’s even worse than you thought…. Blessed Judy, Mother Of Liza, pray for us now and at the hour when we attempt “reverse cowgirl”.

You can see the original mind map here:  https://www.mindmeister.com/889209265#



  • Hot House Hot Doctor Buttfucked by Aussie
  • IconMale Jerk off session interrupted by Hunk
  • Sleazy Raw Butt-Sex Bender for Popperbators
  • Tied up Tickled and Jerked 2
  • Polar Bear Interacially Barebacked after BJ
  • Pool party turns into a hot black gay gangbang
  • Bathroom make Hard Dick
  • Jocks Fuck BB CUMPIE
  • Use him to Fuck and Blow each other

and the winner, considering its positively Grace Kelly-ish restraint, is:

Ice Skating Bitch

I’ll be seeing you, in all the old familiar places.

* goomer:  a gay baby-boomer.  You’re welcome.