Did you miss me?
Come on, dudes. I’m just looking for a standard portion of totally unwarranted validation here, so I can feed the ravening beast of self-esteem. You know? So stop making such a bernie-sanders out of everything.
Well, then. Poor Bereft You, aching with the manque de moi, staring at those used syringes and pre-mixed speed balls, praying for an overdose and that final passage on the Good Ship Lollipop – I do feel your pain.
(PRO TIP: Be sure to have some old-style double-sided razor blades and a bottle of Percs handy, in the case the speed ball turns out to be just as much crazy-ass fun as the last one, thereby feeding your delusion that your life is not a fucked-to-Kingdom-come bomb-site, but a perpetually self-renewing gay-day pass to Canada’s Wonderland that you share with Athena, your personal purple Unicorn.
Oh, yeah, don’t forget to run a warm bath. You’re welcome!)
Now, and with a big, obvious sigh of relief, back to me. For it’s been weeks since I posted here, after a veritable golden shower of inspired scribbling that will serve perfectly as the main corpus of my roman à clef-style autobiography and magnum opus, “Runs Like A Girl”.
Oh, boy oh boy oh boy! They’re gonna eat it up in Des Moines! All of it! Eat it up like friggin’ corn dogs and red-eye gravy! And I wanna tell ya, it’s a very, very happy camper called Dave who’s whackin’ off while fantasizing about his own personal five minutes of man-meat-drenched fame.
With the title of my life-story mind-mapped in its entirety, in part thanks to a couple of handy apps I downloaded from Google Play —“Trudly”, which takes your family tree and reworks it so you can plausibly pass yourself off as the 1972 love-child of Margaret Sinclair and some coked-up stud from Studio 54; and “Obaminator”, which pushes random insulting versions of “Obama” to your cell phone so you can intimidate those libtards on Buzzfeed—only the tedious transcription plus the creation of the actual text remains to be outsourced to an underfed, resentful Third World laborer.
That is, assuming there’s a feisty young Ahmed or Haizan with a typing hand and a few fingers remaining in any of the –istans who isn’t double-booked modeling for GAP or too busy figuring out how to wire his suicide bomb to his iPhone 5.
I tell ya, the global search for available slaves is getting so competitive, it’s hard to resist venting my annoyance with a nice, hard boot in the face to the Islamo-terrorist who polishes my shoes at Union Station. So I don’t resist!
I mean, it almost takes the fun out of flying to Mumbai, rounding up a busload of civilians for “call-centre work”, shoving them into a concrete bunker containing a pile of un-sewn blue jeans, pointing a machine gun at them, then locking them up overnight with a couple of Happy Meals and setting fire to the place.
What burns me is I only included the Happy Meals ’cause it was women and kids. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s wasting perfectly good food.
Anyhoo, now that I’m no longer lightly beaded with sweat from laboring over my title, I am well disposed to begin Venn-diagramming my latest, in fact, my only, contribution to the literary schwa that is self-help literature, provisionally called:
“I’m OK, You’re a Retard: Why White Str8 Males
Have WAAAAAY Too Much Self-Esteem and
Why I’m the Gay to Deal With It, Bro!
Oh, it is not.
Really? You think so?
Well, believe me sincere when I say that the fun never pales when it comes to watching you squirm with discomfort as I fish for a compliment. But Dude – you just have to remember:
Never, I mean jamais, I mean Nuh-nuh-NEVER forget how good I am to you. Ja, OK? Bitte sehr please??
Which segues like the grinding of unlubricated gears to the REAL topic of today’s post, namely:
Fig. 1: Shutting the fuck up: Correct placement of Duct Tape
SHUT THE FUCK UP, WHITE STR8 DUDES
(a.k.a. Str8-tards)! (Fig. 1)
Yeah, you heard me. SHUT THE FUCK UP, ’cause no matter where I roam online in my hunger to hear the IQ-destroying, toxic talk radio that is the “Innernet”, white straight guys are the static.
HSSSS! CRCKLLLLE! BZZZZZ!
Static! Sound and fury, and oh boy, the fury – signifying nada. Niente. Gar nix. They out-pontificate Pope Francis – shout-out to Francine, BFF! Love ya, girl! – and they out-entitle – hmm…
I’m stumped, cause there ain’t no one more fucking entitled than a white straight male. To wit:
We have Gay Pride? They’re all worked up. They gotta have Straight Pride! Down with the oppression of the one human class who’s never actually suffered any, and down down down with one nano-second of paying attention to anyone but these spoiled-rotten rejects from privatized childcare.
I want to marry my partner? Nuh-nuh-NO! That’s not traditional!
I’m gonna take this real slowly for you: Equal marriage is just as traditional as traditional marriage. It’s the same institution of marriage, get it?
See what I mean? Dumber than cum!
As for your spiteful, slippery-slope argument that equal marriage means we’ll all be hooking up with our pet hamsters in mass ceremonies and fucking dogs in the town square, I wonder if you’re just jealous about the options available to the broad-minded now that you’re squirming with boredom in your sex-less common-law arrangement with your high-school sweetheart, “Suzy behind the goalposts”, and driving a second-hand Ford Focus, that kid-crammed, four-wheel-drived slap in the face, the vehicular expression of your thwarted Lamborghini dreams?
Dumb, and lacking in gratitude. I wonder if you geniuses have ever stopped to think about the selfless service we fags have performed over the years? Namely:
There’s at least ten percent more women available for you, and all because of gay men!
Yeah, not so clever now, are we? But instead of thanking us, you sit there in your soiled bathrobes, mouths glowing orange in the dark from powdered cheese and masturbating compulsively as you post misspelled comments online about abortion, “gay” marriage and socialism.
DUDES! Get out and objectify some piece of tail! Now!
Surely it’s no secret that the online static is all about male bonding; the actual content is just a good old stinky red herring. (Notice how they always go off-topic? Exactly.)
Str8-tards care about only one thing: that other str8-tards see how MANLY they are <scratches balls, farts>.
It’s the VR edition of hangin’ out with their bro’s at Fred’s Garage and Live Bait, where they can snicker at the Sports Illustrated calendar and tinker with their camshafts.
But I bet you a triple-triple at Timmies that all you’d have to do with some of these hammer hawks is bring ’em home, sling ’em a couple of beers, and they’d be down on all fours sucking dick faster than you could say “pedophile hockey coach”.
I’ve written about these Geezer Libertarians before. But now I’ve reached the tipping point. I tell ya, I’ve had it had it had it up to the very tops of my Louboutin pumps – the ones with the plexiglass soles and nine-inch heels that I wore to Pride with my chain-mail jockstrap, and you gotta admit, it’s a look! – with the stupidity, the ubiquity and the iniquity of the belly-scratching, Fox-watching, wind-breaking, closet-casing, homophobic, racist, misogynist, all-denying, all-knowing, asshole-speaking white male str8-tard-iverse.
And there’s only one way to deal with it.
Luciano? Take a memo, baby!
TO: All Str8-tards
c/o the Str8-tard-iverse.
Are you gay?
First, look down and locate your penis. I’ll give you a few minutes.
Ready? OK. Is it hard and in another guy’s mouth?
Are you now, or have you ever been, ejaculating all over another male’s pink, gaping hole?
Check your left nostril: Is it shoved half-an-inch deep onto a bottle of amyl nitrate?
Have you recently tag-teamed a barely-legal twink (proof on file) with the other members of your all-male show-tunes choir, “The Sondheim-ites”?
Was there ever a night where you got trashed on girl drinks, acted out the entire party scene from “All About Eve”, then faked a suicide attempt?
Have you ever attended Wagner’s Ring Cycle at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden dressed in leather harness and chaps, and sporting a butt plug that doubles as a puppy tail?
Are you holding crumpled, autographed programs from every city in Madonna’s most recent world tour?
Do you make protest signs, take off all your clothes and march against oppression and bigotry at Gay Pride, then say to your friends, “I wouldn’t be caught dead at Spa Excess! It’s full of Asians!”
If you answered NO to all of the above, I’ve got news for you: You’re not gay!
So SHUT THE FUCK UP about gay rights. Next:
Are you a woman?
Look at your chest : Are you at this moment nursing a minimum of one infant?
Do you take to your bed with “the vapours” every lunar cycle?
While in bed, do you hug one of the many adorable stuffed animals to hand because they care?
Does your boss chase you around your desk brandishing a bottle of Bailey’s Irish Cream, while you simultaneously make half his salary cause you were passed over for promotion?
Have you recently, or ever, been the victim of an “up-skirts” video prank?
Do you wait in the rush-hour cashier line-up for twenty minutes, then, when all your groceries are totalled, open your handbag, rummage around for your change purse and say, “Twenty-nine ninety-nine? Let’s see, I’m sure I have some nickels I need to get rid of! Let’s count out the exact change! By the way, your new uniform looks just darling!”
Do you wear your hair in a girlish, Marlo Thomas-y flip, and was there, last time you checked, a vagina between your legs?
NO? You’re not a woman! Congratulations, dude!
SHUT THE FUCK UP about women’s issues. Furthermore:
Are you black?
Turn out the lights and look into this mirror. Can you see your eyes, and only your eyes? Now smile. Exactly.
Do you find yourself from time to time craving a mess o’ grits and collard greens? Jerk chicken? A bit of man-pussy on the D L?
Do you experience an irrepressible urge to get shot while at a full stop at the traffic lights?
Do you find yourself spontaneously rioting in economically-depressed urban centres due to decades of oppression?
Are you 85 years old yet still manage to put on your Sunday Best all-white zoot suit and shoes with spats, then head cheerfully to the only available polling station in your county with your walker and 14 pieces of ID cause you can’t afford the bus?
Do you use, in your casual, day-to-day conversation, terms such as gangsta, fuck that shit, homey and bootilicious?
Do you have, or have you at any time in your sorry life had, rhythm? NO?
Then you ain’t black, muthafucka. SHUT THE FUCK UP about Black Lives Matter.
Just SHUT THE FUCK UP.
One, two buckle your shoe, three four SHUT THE FUCK UP.
The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Why did the chicken cross the road? To SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Knock, knock. SHUT THE FUCK UP.
It was the best of times, it was the SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Romeo, Romeo, SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Oh Jerry, let’s not ask for the moon. We have the SHUT THE FUCK UP.
Get the idea?
And never, I mean NEVER – you know.
Seen on “Living Blue in a Red State“, a Facebook page devoted to keeping the discussion going around Liberal values:
“Scientifically speaking, punching Donald Trump in the mouth
would be considered fisting.”