My friends all think I’ve lost it. You see I’m a legendary Barbra hatah. How did I, a card carrying gay man get that way? One word, ‘Prince of Tides.’ That’s three words. Two if you say it fast which I always try to. Then came ‘The Mirror Has Two Faces ’which is five words and it deserves every one because it’s two words worse. But tonight I realized, watching Barbra sing “You’re still growing, you’re still glowing, you’re still going strong,” while staring at the old waiter’s crotch that just because something has gone sour doesn’t mean that it once wasn’t ripe and juicy. And furthermore that with the proper care and enough moisture it can be made plump and delicious once again and that if that fails you can train yourself to like sour so you’re never really down for the count. And finally no matter what Bette does, she did start in the baths. That’s good enough for me.
Philosophers would say that my Barbra vendetta was a sign that I’d lost sight of my hate, that I had in fact let my hate out weigh my love. It’s true. I’ve been lashing out at certain celebrities, institutions, rituals, foodstuffs and countries indiscriminately for years now and I have to stop before one of then lashes back. It’s already gotten close. Last year it came to my attention that Belgium had heard about some of the cracks I'd made while working as a ‘popper pimp’* in Frankfurt and that they were thinking of undermining my bid to be the Grand Marshall of next years ‘Berlin Love Ball’ and so I’ve decided to say some nice things about them now, not because I feel pressure from the Hague but because I mean it. Here goes. “Belgium is easy to spell.” There, that wasn’t so bad.
The Bible says to hate only those that hate you and as far as I know parsnips have nothing against me and straight men knitting is not a direct personal attack on my value system but sometimes when you see a man pretending to be a god ruling a city that thinks it’s a country in a dress and ruby slippers you want to drop a house on him or at least a piece of the action.
Speaking of misunderstood divas I got so inspired by Britney shaving her head that I went out and shaved my testicles. Now does that mean I’m having a nervous breakdown? No. However the fact that I photographed them and put them on the internet might. I posted them to the official website of the Royal Family. I hope Liz doesn’t see them because she’d recognize them in an instant. Seven Christmases ago I was staying at Balmoral and I was helping some of the servants out, not that I was paying my way, I just like to help out when I stay with the Royals. They’re so helpless which of course is their charm. Anyways, I played a switcheroo with the haggis when I brought the dish to the table and of course her highness always does the honours and well, you can imagine. I was almost gelded that day.
Fagette sent me an e-mail. She’s doing fine. The man in the car wasn’t her father. It was actually a second cousin she never knew so she is getting closer. As for bartending, she’s teaching herself the classics at home after school. She sent me a picture of a Harvey Wallbanger. Leave it to her to champion an underdog.
*see previous post 'The Bitch is Back'.
Gabcast! ewe #28 - It's a Chevy
Elan Vitale lets fly with his unrestrained love of Chevrolet and all it's fine products. It may be short but it was also shortlisted as a candidate for the school song of the Yoko Ono Institute of Unlistenable Music.