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)

phoebe
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:

Next!

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#

YES, IT’S THE FIRST INSTALLMENT OF:

GAY PORN TITLES OF THE WEEK?!

  • 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.

Oscillating and pulsating, on and off, -OR- “What we talk about when we talk about extremely personal hygiene, assuming we’re tasteless enough to talk about it at all, and we are.”

bidet

Campers, I give you herewith:

The dashboard for an electronic bidet’s remote control.

Oh, you heard, cupcake. Oh, yes you did. Stop going “LaLaLaLaLaLa” with your fingers in your ears.

I have so much to share.

Don’t ask me how I stumbled across this treasure. I do not remember. Any more than the bathrobe-wearing 85-year-old dementia sufferer remembers how he ended up on the midnight bus to North Bay with egg-yolk in his chest hair and clutching a box of wet wipes.

(I would like to say I found it “on the computer”. This is how my Luddite friends would respond to the question.  And I don’t complain, much, because at least they’ve remembered that “the computer” isn’t “the TV-looking thing with all the pictures on it”.

(But it’s a losing battle as their trembling white senior-knuckles gradually give up their hold on the crumbling cliff edge of the twenty-first century, and they slide back! back! into the abyss filled with IBM Selectronic typewriters—whose golf ball technology replaced the gentle thwack-thwacking of individual keys with the sound and sensation of being shot point-blank in the forehead with an assault weapon—carbon paper, correction fluid, avocado-green kitchen appliances, orange shag carpeting and push-button princess telephones.

(That was their defining era, the fork in the path when they shook their heads at “progress”, took a just-invented Valium and called Bell Canada for return of their “perfectly good” black rotary dialler.  To get an idea of what Bell Canada was like back then, think Glenn Close in “Fatal Attraction” but without the wife to stand in her way.)

Now let us return our gratefully wandering attention to the dashboard in question.  I may be remembering correctly or I may not, but I think it was the options for “front cleansing” and “rear cleansing” – and their shamelessly derivative Keith Haring-inspired icons – that made me stop for a moment and really think about my life up to this point.

Specifically, my total mismanagement of the whole euphemism quandary, including the words “fresh” and “man-scent”, and those countless times when the other person waiting for the elevator opted to let me go it alone.  Always happy for another excuse to lie awake at 3 A.M., wide-eyed and counting the holes in the acoustic ceiling tiles.

Also about: “Deodorizer – on/off”. This instantly raises the bar on what I previously counted as torment, for I have never known a torment quite like the torment of wondering who would choose “Off”.

Also: “Wand cleaning”.  Let me just say that again:

“Wand. Cleaning”.

For the combination of those two words—the wizardly, Harry Potter-ish and oh-so-phallic “wand” and the quotidian, practical “cleaning“, conjuring as it does Mrs Aquino from up the road who wears her support stockings rolled to the knees, and which all but forces your reluctant little face into the fact not just of something NEEDING cleaning, but WHY – well, let’s just say that, in the game of word association I play with myself, “wand” elicits the response “injury“.  As in, “Get this guy to the ICU – it’s a wand injury, poor bastard. And page the plastic surgeon on call!”

Also: “Oscillating / Pulsating”.

This is almost past the point of what the human psyche can bear, because with those two words we’ve crossed a line in the sand that I thought uncrossable.  I must finally face the cold fact, namely:

There is a machine that offers more options for the tender care of my nether regions than my ex-boyfriend did.

WAY more options.

And you know what?  Somehow, I always knew.

Facebook Life Events #23: Met another asshole, leading to two theorems.

It wasn't me...
It wasn’t me…

WTF.  I just kicked the last three out of the house, and now ANOTHER one shows up.

I think the first one you meet starts a dossier, passes it on, etc. That’s my first theory: all the assholes are in cahoots.

My second theory stems from the fact that one of these prime specimens – (I mean, at least this one kept the kitchen tidy, which is something, except I don’t care. I really don’t.  It’s like, finding out that Idi Amin was captain of the Junior Bowling League, seemingly humanizing but ultimately just something random to ponder between beatings) – one of them always turns up around the time I have a new public showing of work and have to keep calm and collected (see davidroddis.com for details).

So I postulate that I send out special pheromones around these events. The more I think about it, there’s just no other possible explanation.  And that, Virginia, is theorem number two.

Bonus Offer: If any budding young scientist wants a really stand-out Master’s thesis, give me a call. I’m not cheap, but I’m willing.

Now hand me that bottle of Vim…