Paradigm Shift

I don’t know how else to say this, but there has been a major paradigm shift in my life. If this were your blog and you were talking about me, the title to your post would be "No Milk Please Trumpets Paradigm Shift!" There would be fanfare; there would be confetti; there would be high-class prostitutes.

"Paradigm Shift" is a term we IT-folk like to throw around because using it makes it sounds like it justifies our inflated compensation. Unfortunately, I myself don't understand what "paradigm" means because I was too busy picking out donuts at that meeting and then getting lost in the sugar high. An IT-person probably invented the word as it has a "g" come up unexpectedly in the middle, slowing you down, like a speed bump or woman with a nice pair of tits. What? Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that tits don’t interest me. A nice pair of tits are a thing of beauty; they make you look at their owner and then make you want to scratch their eyes out. You ladies know what I mean.

Paradigm is not pronounced as "pa-ra-dig-mmm" as you might expect but like "pa-ra-dime." Wikipedia defines "paradigm shift" as a "a radical change in personal beliefs" or "replacing the former way of thinking." And that’s exactly describes what’s happened to me--there has been a radical, radical change in the way I wipe my ass.

That’s right. I used to wipe my ass with plain two-ply, quilted toilet paper, but I’ve found something new: the personal moist wipes. I’ve flirted with it in the past, but now I’m ready to extol its virtues and champion its cause; I’m ready to go full-on with it, with no installments or benchmarks set by congress. The only thing I need is a tasteful container, maybe ceramic or pewter or jewel-encrusted crystal, instead of the plastic one it comes in and I’ll be content.

It’s like, wiping my ass with toilet paper is now akin to using newspaper, paper bags or green leafy vegetables to wipe my ass. Just the idea now makes my ass cringe and tighten. But then, I think about it for a few more minutes, hoping the idea will help tighten my loose, slutty asshole. I wish there were something like Kegel exercises for slutty gay Asian bottoms because nobody likes to fuck a loose bag of rice.

The soft, moist material is like a kiss the lips of my ass. If my ass had a tongue, it would french those moist wipes.

I also think that this is more economical, as it is pretty efficient in its cleansing. The moisture I think cleans thoroughly with less swipes; its thickness and size (a little smaller than two sheets of your normal toilet paper square) allows you to fold it over and use the other side to wipe again safely. If you were as cheap as me, you would fold it over a third time and wipe again, all without soiling your hands. I think even Sheryl Crow would find that barring an unfortunate Mexican take-out, you could use a single sheet. I myself am proof of that.

And bonus: guess what else it's good for? Wiping off spooge. I only wish it also had a built-in moisturizer for when my boyfriend comes on my face.

So hallelujah personal moist wipes! I sing your body electric! I have to praise you like I should...

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Other related posts:

Dropping The Kids Off At The Pool - Part 1 of 2. Ruminations and other deep thoughts about poo. A Fastidious Bird - Part 2 of 2. The stress of taking a shit at work.

Getting Shit Done - Not about shit at all but about workplace productivity, or my lack of. This Is How It Happens - A four-part story about my stay in the hospital when I had bowel obstruction. Painful.

Excerpts from a Diary

Found this on the "Interweb" (as Tracy Jordan from 30 Rock would say):

EXCERPTS FROM A DOG'S DIARY

DAY 180

8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

DAY 181

8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

DAY 182

8:00 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
9:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
9:40 am - OH BOY! A WALK! MY FAVORITE!
10:30 am - OH BOY! A CAR RIDE! MY FAVORITE!
11:30 am - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
12:00 noon - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
1:00 pm - OH BOY! THE YARD! MY FAVORITE!
1:30 pm - ooooooo. bath. bummer.
4:00 pm - OH BOY! THE KIDS! MY FAVORITE!
5:00 PM - OH BOY! DOG FOOD! MY FAVORITE!
5:30 PM - OH BOY! MOM! MY FAVORITE!

EXCERPTS FROM A CAT'S DIARY

DAY 752 - My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

DAY 761 - Today my attempt to kill my captors by weaving around their feet while they were walking almost succeeded, must try this at the top of the stairs. In an attempt to disgust and repulse these vile oppressors, I once again induced myself to vomit on their favourite chair...must try this on their bed.

DAY 765 - Decapitated a mouse and brought them the headless body, in attempt to make them aware of what I am capable of, and to try to strike fear into their hearts. They only cooed and condescended about what a good little cat I was... Hmmm. Not working according to plan.

DAY 768 - I am finally aware of how sadistic they are. For no good reason I was chosen for the water torture. This time however it included a burning foamy chemical called "shampoo." What sick minds could invent such a liquid. My only consolation is the piece of thumb still stuck between my teeth.

DAY 771 - There was some sort of gathering of their accomplices. I was placed in solitary throughout the event. However, I could hear the noise and smell the foul odour of the glass tubes they call "beer.." More importantly I overheard that my confinement was due to MY power of "allergies." Must learn what this is and how to use it to my advantage.

DAY 774 - I am convinced the other captives are flunkies and maybe snitches. The dog is routinely released and seems more than happy to return. He is obviously a half-wit. The bird on the other hand has got to be an informant, and speaks with them regularly. I am certain he reports my every move. Due to his current placement in the metal room his safety is assured. But I can wait, it is only a matter of time...

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Other pet posts:

Morning Routine - A surprise greets me at lunch for my haste getting ready for work. Confessions of a Broken Cat - A feline emergency in 3 parts. Drama guaranteed.

Meeting The Family - It was an inauspicious beginning: Rusty knocks me down when I first meet my BF's family. Bite Your Tongue - Mythbusting. Do dogs bite their tongues? Find out.

Machinations of My Mother-in-Law

My birthday was nearly 4 weeks ago, yet my devious mother-in-law had decided to throw me a party, ostensibly to celebrate my holy birth, but in reality, to create yet another reason to gather her brood around her and tug on those apron strings.

In the five years that Brian and I have been together, I had kept my birthday a closely guarded secret, primarily because I hate being reminded that every year is another year closer to the gay retirement home, the place where we shunt off the elderly: the ones who are infirm, we poor homos over 25. Because I am Asian, I am able to disguise my real age with a bit o’ concealer. But I truly fear the day that I am found out, then my fellow gays will toss me aside, like a crouton from a low-carb salad.

But my mother-in-law, that sneaky woman, managed to get a hold of this classified information from an unsuspecting Brian. Of course, Brian was thrilled, because to him, this indicated that I was finally being “accepted,” being brought into the familial fold--I was being integrated into the Borg.

That’s what so sweet about Brian--his heart is pure and innocent. He can’t imagine that there was an ulterior motive here: this was a ploy to add another date to his mother’s calendar of tortuous womandatory family events.

All holidays and Pulaski Day must be spent at my mother-in-law's house. Her children, though grown in their 20s and 30s, must be nestled at her bosom, a size 50, triple-D. Never mind that the children's spouses had families of their own--she called dibs on those holidays while the children were in utero.

But she must’ve felt her influence waning as the children had started negotiating these dates. There were requests to split the holidays, leaving early or arriving late. These requests were ultimately abandoned by the requestor as their mother’s tears fell. Such powerful ammunition. If we could somehow control Barbara Bush’s tear ducts, the war in Iraq would certainly be over.

Now, my birthday, while not a holiday, was seized upon as another excuse. “I’m throwing a party for Paul’s birthday,” mom exclaimed, “how’s next week?”

I protested of course, but how do you refuse your mother-in-law’s largesse without turning your spouse against you? Do you think that you have bound your spouse to you with your vows, your wedding rings, your blowjob technique? But remember, your wedding ring is but of soft gold; those apron strings are of steel cable.

Then the woman asks how many candles she will need for the cake. Mother wins again. The cake might as will be my tombstone; the candles, the nails in my coffin. The entire family will be summoned to watch me age before their eyes, candle by candle, withering to nothing, despite Kiehl's Cryste Marine Firming Serum, Oil of Olay and the battery acid I use to keep my skin beautiful.

So today, in a few hours, we will be headed towards my mother-in-law’s house, Brian still oblivious to his mother’s machinations. My only consolation is that one day, maybe, I will be able to exact revenge on my daughter- or son-in-law.

I relish the thought.


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Birthday Nookie - On the morning of Brian's birthday, I gave him the gift of nookie.

Something's Gotta Give - Yeah, especially your knees, your ankles. Ruminations on aging and a movie review.

Ask Matt

Matt's notorious column returns.

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Matt--

How many holes do girls have...um...down there?

Brian

Brian--

Good question. First off, I would suggest you forward me your age and location. This will aid me in determining whether you were failed by an antiquated Southern Baptist public sex education curriculum or if you are just an idiot.

Girls, in fact, have three holes “down there.” One for pooping, one for peeing and one for the purpose of procreation. Personally, I like to refer to this phenomenon as "the three P's." From back to front, they are arranged in the following order:

1. Poop
2. Procreate
3. Pee

So, if you and your lady friend are on the verge of becoming intimate, the one that you want to aim for is in the front. Unless your paramour is of the sexually liberated variety, at which point you may suggest an entry from the rear. Believe what you hear, it really is tighter.

Good luck and happy humping!

Matt

PS - Please don’t ask me where the clitoris is. I really have no idea.


Matt--

Do girls have hairy assholes?

No Milk Please

No Milk--

My tongue says "yes."

Matt



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Matt will answer any stupid question. Ask yours by sending us an e-mail or putting it in the comments.

Ask Matt - His previous column. Dare to ask our illustrious Matt a question? Check here.

How Does It Work? - Matt can answer any question, including Annie's about those mysterious things called 'tampons.'

Deep Relaxation Techniques

I have an effective relaxation technique that works really well in extremely stressful situations like when I have to get a root canal, or have my blood drawn, or whenever I have to visit my mother-in-law.

A few days ago, I went to see visit my dentist to get my teeth cleaned and get some dental work done. I had noticed that in the past month or so, I woke up grinding my teeth and I am at a loss to explain why. Very likely, my previous dental work have shifted, or at least I hoped so, because I’d hate to think that I was grinding my teeth because of the window treatments my boyfriend installed without asking me. We agreed that for major life decisions like this we would always consult each other.

But until I developed this relaxation technique, I always dreaded going to the dentist.

When I was growing up, my mother took us to Chinatown to see Dr. Wong, who is this old, grizzly dentist with yellow teeth, sparse eyelashes and a mole on his chin that had a few thick long black hairs that grew out of it. His office was very dusty and grey. Old Chinese newspapers were stacked in the corner and white rings were permanently etched on the worn and faded coffee table, no coasters in sight.

That waiting room was definitely not designed to be conducive for relaxation. I mean, how can you when there aren’t any fashion or entertainment magazines to read in sight? Couldn't he have at least put in an old Mirabella, that mainstay of dental offices, in there? Plus, in his office, along with his dental implements, he had a pair of long-nosed pliers and a mallet. That didn’t really inspire ease in a patient, especially since he didn’t seem the type to play croquet. And I kept thinking of those rings on the coffee table. If he didn’t care about his coffee table, my teeth were doomed.

I told myself then and there, that when I grew up, I would find a modern dentist who used the latest techniques, the latest equipment and had the latest magazines in his waiting room. No more freakin Mirabella.

My current dentist, Dr. Murray, had a tasteful waiting room in the fashionable Lincoln Square neighborhood in Chicago, had flat screen TVs installed and used dental implements sealed in plastic to insure sanitation. Dr. Murray inspired confidence in his professional appearance, his carefully swept hair and his wolfish grin.

However, until I was able to choose my own dentist, until Dr. Murray, I had to perfect my deep relaxation technique which I used in stressful situations. It involved clearing your mind of all thought, regulating your breathing and then imagining having sex with the person inflicting the stress.

Perfecting this deep relaxation technique takes time. You would think that it was easy imagining having sex with a stranger--ok it is, he is a dentist after all, and if he was also single, my mother would have already married me off to him. And if he wasn't single, then let's just say that my mom knows which setting to use on a chainsaw that inflicts the most damage on his wife.

But, I am old school in the sense that I can't really imagine having sex with someone until I have taken the time to at least get to know them a little bit by possibly calling their house a few times and then abruptly hanging up. But trust me when I say that this gets easier. It does, even when you do get served with a restraining order.

But you know how almost intimate it feels when a dentist is working on your teeth, their hands on your face, in your mouth, their face dangerously close to you that if you even just pucker your lips, your lips could accidentally touch? How if you peer into your dentist's eyes, you could almost see a reflection of yourself? It's easy enough to imagine him without the rubber gloves, the protective eyewear, or his white dentist shirt with his name Dr. Murray, DDS, sewn in italics, over one pocket. Easy enough to imagine him naked, on his knees, offering you a 2-carat engagement ring. What? I won’t be a cheap slut, even in my imagination, unless you pay me $50 first.

When your faces are that close, it's easier to ignore the actual physical realities of your dentist. You could focus on their eyes, the bridge of their nose and imagine the rest of him to your desires.

For me, I have even perfected this technique such that it works even on the petite, blond, female dental hygienist that works for Dr. Murray. I focus on her pretty blue eyes and imagine her thick beercan cock rubbing against me as she polishes my teeth, and then I am relaxed as can be.

I just wish I had perfected this skill when I was younger so that I could've avoided all that dread and fear that I had at old Dr. Wong's dusty office. I would've been relaxed, calm, even as the long black hairs on Dr. Wong's mole brushed against my face as he worked on my young, innocent teeth...

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Let's Get [a] Physical - My once a year hypochondria and addiction to a poke in the rear.

The Model Minority - Old Chinese dentists aside, Asians are the Next Top Model Minority.

Shalom!

(c) 2005 The New Yorker

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Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

The Deep South - My comic strip blog that rips off works of art. Now on haitus coz I'm lazy.

Bite Your Tongue

Rusty, my mother-in-law's golden retriever, came barreling down the hall, almost knocking me off my feet. He licked my face as I futilely tried to fend him off. He laid his big heavy paws on my chest as he stood on his hind legs, panting heavily into my face.

"Boy," I said to him, "you seriously need some mints. You're never gonna get a date this way. You're never gonna get a date with that bitch down the street, um-hmmmm, yeah that bitch Mrs. Anderson." I grabbed his furry face and shook it, "Yeah, you don't have a chance unless you get some mints."

As the dog's tongue hung out and his saliva dripped on me, I wondered: do dogs bite their tongues? Their tongues are constantly hanging out and it's not possible that they don't bite down on it once in a while, especially when they eat too fast. Rusty gobbles up his food as soon as it's poured out of the bag. He steals the rolls from the dinner table, the snacks from the living room, the edible panties from my mother-in-law's bedroom. The panties are size XXXL so it's quite a delight, I hear.

If dogs chewed gum do they would accidentally bite the insides of their mouths? If they did, would they have to avoid Indian food afterwards because it stings? Also Szechuan food and the salsa from that Mexican restaurant down the street. I often bite the insides of my mouth when I chew gum which is why I avoid it entirely. Stick to mints, I say.

In a MythBusters moment, I decided to grab Rusty's jaws and tried to jam them shut while his tongue was hanging out, to see if I could get Rusty to bite his tongue.

It didn't seem to have any effect--myth busted. Dogs do not bite their tongues.

I know what you're thinking.

No, I'm not 13 years old. I'm just evil.

Heh-heh.

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Meeting the Family - It was an inauspicious beginning: Rusty knocks me down when I first meet my BF's family.

Parking Tickets are Evil - Yes, evil! Something from the archives: a sample of cringe-worthy writing from the early days.

Laser Whiz

Do you think that I am the only one in the world who plays laser tag with the urinal infrared sensor? I call it Laser Whiz.

Do you know what it is? It's that sensor that detects when a person leaves to flush the urinal or toilet. They usually have them in places where people forget to flush the toilet like airports, movie theatres or leather bars.

Although in the case of particularly raunchy (i.e., hot!!!) leather bars, the patrons will obstruct the sensor. You know how in a movie theatre, you may go to a vending machine to get a toy for your young one? In a leather bar, the toilet is that vending machine. People make a deposit and then someone gets a toy.

When I am using a urinal with an infrared sensor, I often have this urge to see if I could trigger the sensor to flush while I am pissing. It's like a mission: how many times can I get the urinal to flush in the time it takes to take a whiz. Bonus if you don't miss and pee all over the floor, unless of course, you're in a leather bar.

My techniques include angling my upper body sideways while keeping the lower part of my body straight. It's a particularly hard move that should only be attempted by experts. Usually only an experienced player can angle their upper body far enough to trip the sensor.

For the less experienced, I suggest moving off to the side of the urinal while peeing. You have to stand pretty close to the wall to do this. It's quite a dangerous move as you're likely to annoy the guy standing next to you.

Women too, can play Laser Whiz.

While sitting on the toilet, bend forward as low as you can while you're taking a piss or whatever you women do while you're in the stall--I can never tell since y'all take an hour in the restroom. Sometimes I think you're performing some kind of ritual sacrifice to the gods for giving you that guy sitting patiently outside the restroom for you.

You'll have to bend forward pretty low as the toilet sensor has a wider range than a urinal. I suggest papering the floor in case you have to put your hands on the floor to get low. I know this seems to be too much effort just to play a game, but trust me, you'll be thrilled when you hear the rush of water flushing down. Plus, you'll have learned a new sexual position which the Kama Sutra calls "Monkey Bending Over to Trigger Urinal Sensor" or something like that--my Sanskrit is pretty rudimentary.

Also, this position is very useful for constipation.

I think my highest score is like fifteen flushes while I was taking a piss, but this was during a nail-biter of a Super Bowl game where I was holding in six beers, four cokes and a two year-old grudge against the Hilary Swank for wearing that horrible dress at the Oscars.

Think you can take me? Then I challenge you to a duel! Let's meet at a neutral location, like at my house, and compete for the much coveted title of Mr. Laser Whiz.

Oh oh oh! We could also compete for Mr. Laser Whiz Universe if we add an evening gown and swimsuit competition. Pretty, pretty please?


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The Little Things - My ruminations on a booger I found on a wall while peeing at a corporate restroom.

Come Together - A visit to IML and sudden fart in a very very cruisy restroom.

you were born and so you're free

by Anders Nilsen


(c) 2007 Anders Nilsen

Take a wonderful, dark and poetic journey, from deathbed to oblivion, written and drawn by Anders Nilsen. This originally appeared in the Chicago Reader for their 5th Annual Comics Bonanza.

START HERE

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Maybonne & Marlys - A cartoon by Lynda Barry from a strip called Ernie Pook. This one is about little Marlys, her gay uncle and her awesome manifesto on queers.

Cartoons - The New Yorker cartoons slay me. These are ones which have appeared in this site over the years.

Books by Anders Nilsen:

Round Robin

What else is there to do when you are a bunch of rowdy homos visiting Small Town America, no gay bar in sight? You head to the local tavern/Mexican restaurant/bail bondsman's office, get smashed on margaritas and ask each other questions that everyone has to answer.

How old were you when you got your first perm?

Rick: Fifteen. I had great big, soft waves.
Paul: Sixteen. It made me look like a poodle. It was horrifying. It lasted a week before I cut it off.
Joe, Brian, Mark: Never.
Matt: Rick, I can't believe you had a perm! Why did you get it?
Rick: It made my hair look nice. What? What?

Have you ever had sex with a woman?

Joe: Does oral sex count?
Brian: Yes!
Rick: Ok, in that case, I did give this one girl, Mirasol, a blowjob.
Everyone: Eeeeeew!
Joe: Then, yes, it was in college. It was Kelly.
Brian: Kelly? Our Kelly? Kelly, who just got married and had a baby, that Kelly?
Joe: She sixty-nined me. We were incredibly drunk.
Brian: Does she remember?
Joe: I don't know, we never talked about it.

What was the first record you bought yourself that wasn't given to you as a gift.

Matt: What's a record?
Paul: It was a novelty record by a Filipino comedian about exercising, I would translate but it's embarrassing. I was twelve.
Joe: "Call Me" by Blondie
Brian: The Boomerang Soundtrack on CD.
Rick: Notorious by Duran Duran, it was a cassette though.

Have you ever gotten VD?

Everyone: CRABS!!!
Paul: Yes, chlamydia, among others.
Brian: Chlamydia.
Matt: Throat gonorrhea.
Paul: What is that?
Matt: It's when your throat closes up and it hurts.
Silence.
Rick: Ok ok ok. I had throat gonorrhea too.
Silence.
Silence.
Joe: Me too.

Have you ever received Jesus as your personal savior?

Paul: Twice. The first one didn't count, I was fourteen and drunk.
Rick, Matt, Brian and Joe: Never.

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Ask Matt - Dare to ask our illustrious Matt a question? Check here. Ask him for a date.

Things That May Drive Joe to Crazyville - A little rant by Joe in this very blog. He's also single, boyz.

I Know.

I know you're reading this, you motherfucker.

You liar, betrayer, boyfriend stealer.

You guiled your way into my life, pretended to be my friend, then fucked my boyfriend behind my back.

My site logs have captured your IP address, your google search terms: I know it's you, fucker. I've hidden your name in this blog with white font like this: ASSHOLE, a white word. Highlight it and see what I think of you. I've hidden it for the search engines to mine, to excavate. It's all out there.

I KNOW.

You think I've forgotten? I've got a long memory and I've got a blog. You can read about the hurt that you've caused me, it's in here, it's all in here, among the archives. Read it! READ. IT. Giggle at how stupid I was. Snicker at my trust. Go on, laugh at me.

It was shitty for a long time, but I got over it. I moved on. I fucked other people. I fucked other people's boyfriends. I just had to know what it was like. I just had to get into your head, because I couldn't get into your head with a hammer.

You can keep coming back, but that white word? It'll be here forever, a nugget of iron pyrite in an ore of gold. I hated you. I forgave you.

I don't forgive you.

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Self-Googling is Masturbation - It's compulsive, I know, but I do it too most nights when I'm lonely.

Blog Gimmickry - Without putting up naked pictures of yourself, nobody will your blog.

I AM QUEER

When former NBA player Tim Hardaway said "I hate gay people," it was reprehensible, horrific because it's so so wrong to hate, you know, the mentally retarded. I am just so glad he's not talking about us fags. It's interesting how the word 'gay' has now become synonymous with 'stupid' or 'dumb' or 'unfashionable.' I am not sure why the Queers got so up in arms about this; Hardaway was just using the language of the streets.

At first, I thought that yeah, I can hear the irony in that. Gay people have become smug in the 21st century with our wit, our clothes and our nimble dance moves. We needed to be taken down a notch. What's better than to appropriate our word and use it against us?

Once, my boss, that sweet sixty year-old Japanese woman said to me, "Paul, that outfit's sooo gay," I got pissed. Granted, I was wearing a halter top, but that's beside the point. When little ole ladies are using what used to be street vernacular in their language, you know it's ingrained in the culture.

I have come to accept that there's nothing I can do about the use of the word 'gay,' just as I can't do anything about how 'beeeeeyatch' should be used. I think it should only be used on mothers who wouldn't let you wear nail polish.

I think we should stop using the word 'gay' to identify ourselves. We should use other words more, like 'homo' or 'queer' or even 'fabulous!!!' which I think is more meaningful, stronger, more in-your-face, like a fart in an elevator.

I'd like to be in a very long elevator ride down Sears Tower with Isaiah Washington, press the emergency stop button and let out a big wet fart. Do you think he'll make out with me afterwards?

And when people start using 'queer' like 'gay' (as they inevitably will), we'll move on to 'butt muncher.'

We'll always be one step ahead of everyone.

C'mon everybody! Who's with me? Tell Tim, tell Isaiah, tell 'em all: YOU ARE GAY. I AM QUEER.


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Never Lose Hope - A rant. All queers want to have is love and to be loved. Really.

Why Change? - Outright lies about those tortured beings, those wretched homosexuals.

Happy Valentine's Day

...and the Bees

Would you like to look into my underwear drawer? Come, lets!

My underwear drawer is the second one from the right. I am not really sure how this became the underwear drawer--I’m sure some people have their closets organized so that each item they are putting on is stored next to the one that should go on next: the ties are next to the dress shirts; the sweaters next to t-shirts; the jackets next to the feather boas. In my mind, the only thing that should be stored next to your underwear is your bong. I would put my sex toys in there too, but I don’t think I can fit a fireplug in my underwear drawer.

I’m a briefs kinda guy. I like to wear briefs because it’s comfortable and provides support, unlike boxers where I feel like my balls are waiting to bungee-jump off a bridge.

While I only buy briefs, half my underwear drawer is occupied by boxers. Every single one of these boxers was given to me by people I’ve dated in the last ten years for Valentine’s Day.

I guess that giving underwear these days is supposed to be a romantic gesture: a sweet gift that tells our lovers we would like to get a blowjob in the very near future. These gifts are supposed to seduce our lovers, so we give them a pair of silky underwear or a lacy peignoir or a clown suit. It’s a very subtle message, much like after cooking a well-prepared gourmet dinner, you give your lover some strawberry-flavored lube. And then you take out the whip.

All my boxers are festooned with romantic iconography, symbols of love and relationships: hearts, cupids, Dr. Phil. I’ve also noticed lately, that marketers have been trying to expand this gallery of tired old images. A couple of pairs had little bees on it, which I guess is supposed to invoke sweet thoughts of honey and honeycombs, but for me, only invokes thoughts of itching.

These two pairs were given to me by this one guy I dated who called me his "honey," which I thought would’ve been really romantic if he didn’t usually follow it with, "not tonight, I have a headache." He also had been cheating on me. Call me crazy, but I think he started calling me "honey" because he was afraid he would accidentally use the other guy’s name while we were having sex.

I have been with a few men in my life--okokok 241 men, jeez. So, I’ve been called a few pet names: "sweetie," "babykins," "shithead." My favorite has always been "shithead." That’s because I felt it was the most honest relationship I had been in, he called it like it was. He called a spade a spade, a heart a heart, and a club, something you whack your astronaut’s new girlfriend with.

But girls (and by girls, I mean all of you--lesbians, straight men, carnies. Yeah, you.), forget the underwear, there are only two things that should be in your Valentine’s repertoire: how to make a nice steak and how to give a good blowjob. If you’re vegetarian, then I’m sorry, but didn’t you know you were already eating meat? Then, learn to grill a steak, girl. Good luck.


Just so you don't say that I'm a tease, here are the pics of my underwear. The one to the right is my favorite pair, the blue one with the cute little devils. Yes dear, all gays love Satan.





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It Don't Smell Like Roses - I believed in the Happily Ever After. Boy, was I wrong.

Tug of War - To win the battle for supremacy in any relationship, one must be very very crafty.