The Twenty Two Day War

Twenty two days ago I left you with a cryptic blog about going away to an undisclosed location for vague reasons. I alluded to mysterious forces trying to destroy us, the continuing threat of Francesca Fiori and her associate, the elusive Mr. Dr. Robert Young. I even put the blog on an orange alert. What was up you say? Good question. Where have I been for the last twenty two days. Even better one. Why do monarch butterflies all flock to the same valley in Mexico every year? I have no idea. Why you would go somewhere where everyone is beautiful too is beyond me. That's why I roost in Toronto. More moths than butterflies.

So what did happen to me? Did I fall off a roof like Steve Weston and die? Obviously not because I wouldn't be here blogging unless this isn't really me. Did I fall in love and run off with someone? I wish. Maybe I had been trying to dust a 'Best Legs' trophy on a high book shelf at home and had fallen in between the shelf and the wall and had been trapped there for weeks hanging upside down like a curing slab of bacon. It was none of those things. It was far more boring. I was kidnapped and held hostage by a shadowy group where I was tortured for twenty two days. But it all worked out and I'm back, and all is well. Nay! Better than well. Wellbutrin well.

You'll have to excuse me for not getting more upset but it's not the first time I've been kidnapped. I was kidnapped once before by Uday Hussein and ended up having to have sex with him and his father so this was a cake walk by comparison. I don't even know what my kidnappers looked like because they wore Maude masks the entire time. They wanted me to associate the great Bea Arthur with this horrible experience and forever ruin my love of for her. That's how ruthless they were. All I know is there were four of them and at least two of them were women, one of whom spoke with a Latin accent and called herself Alfresca. Naturally I have my suspicions who it was but I can't say until I know more or get drunk and spill my guts. What was their purpose. They told me they were trying to bring about the collapse of civilization by kidnapping it's most amusing members and holding them hostage for twenty two days until they're broken whereupon they return them back to society so witless and dull that their demeanour will act as a soporific on their friends and eventually render everyone around then completely stupefied until we are all so compliant that we can be harvested as food. That's when I thought they might not be who they said they were. I asked them "Why twenty two days?" They said that it was because that was the life span of any given quip and that after that amount of time, it's impact diminished. Then I asked one of the men what this had to do with Ewe and the woman with the accent said "Nothing." and that Ewe was just collateral damage. I didn't believe her because the whole time she was talking she was writing various prices on a tomato with a sharpie.

For three weeks they tortured me. They blasted me with the soundtrack from Dreamgirls, just the men's parts. They forced me to vote for Sanjaya on American Idol over and over again until my fingers bled. The worst was when they made me write a letter to the editor of Entertainment Weekly thanking them for their "absolutely amazing" cover shot of Justin Timberlake that made him look "so real and completely approachable but still super hot." They almost got me there but I held on. That's when i decided to stop breathing. It's a trick I learned from a shaman/trick in Lake Titicaca and anyways it's come in handy a few times over the years when you want someone to leave. You don't actually stop breathing. You just take in enough air to keep from passing out. It drives your captor's crazy because they think you're dead and they don't want that at least not at the beginning. By the second week I was barely conscious. Week three, I don't remember any of it. Apparently I made a video where I talked about how mixed up Britney was and how I wished I could give her a hug and then I hugged the camera and fell into a coma.

During my time asleep I had this dream where I was in a a room shaped like a triangle lying on a triangular bed and Starbuck the beautiful tomboy space fighter on Battlestar Gallactica was sitting in a traingular chair with her legs crossed like a man and staring at me like she wanted to eat me and my firstborn. Then May Pang the woman John Lennon briefly left Yoko for, came through a round door carrying a case of *Coke Zero. She put the case down and then pulled on out one frosty can and tossed it to Starbuck. She grabbed it and popped it open with a satisfying fizz and then downed it in one go. Then she stood up and I could see that she was wearing a huge strap on penis. She began to walk towards me waggling her rubber appendage and that's all remember until I woke up under a hedge in Forest Hill wearing a bloody diaper. I had lost seventeen pounds and looked fabulous. It was all air. I gained it back by the time I got home. Oh well, that's why there's **Coke Zero.

* This mention of Coke Zero was paid for by Coca Cola Limited and it's subsidiaries and may not be used in or of itself as a stand in for any other cola or beverage of a bubbly brown nature including but not limited to Root Beer, Dr. Pepper, Brio, or Tab.

**This mention of Coke Zero was completely unsolicited.

Gabcast! ewe #33 - Be My Barbarian

This song was alledgedly recorded on March 24th 2007 by me after fifteen days in captivity. At this point I had just fallen into the coma so how I managed to summon the energy to record this cri de couer, I have no idea. What I imagined happened was that at some point in the night I sleptwalked to a studio where my captors had assembled my band Mouth Congress at gunpoint and forced them to accompany me while I raged and stormed in my vegetative state. What other explanation could there be?




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Let's Hear it for Sal

Well ewesies, I'm back. I would apologize for the long absence but since the Oscar debacle where I actually apologized for certain comments, that word is gone from my vocabulary. What I will do is fill you in on where I've been though. I'm no longer in the country, the country being Canada, but once again I am unable to tell you where exactly because of security concerns. We all remember what happened the last time when I went away to that country that rhymes with Sticaragua and the RESU Brigade struck. We were all so concerned with Francesca Fiori and Dr. Robert Young that we forgot that there are many other menaces out there. Let me just say that I am safe and sound in body and in mind. It looks like the Gods have finally turned their face back to me and realized what a cruel waste it is that I am not on television, the movies or on the Most Wanted posters.
I can't say what yet but keep your eye on Court TV. There might be a Star Witness role in my future and if that doesn't work out, I have plans to add a potent drug to my rather prodigous alcohol intake and become a complete mess, flashing my shaved balls in public, spitting on photographers for not taking pictures of me and running into traffic dressed as a Ghurka and yelling things like " Anna Nicole is alive and living in Belgium! " or "The tomato is a fruit and a vegetable! Get used to it! " This new Fame is a brave new world and I intend to figure it out before the Gods turn back to another out of control starlet who hasn't done anything in years. If that sounds bitter, it's because it is. My new manager Uli Jewel says bitterness is the new graciousness and that I should act as bitter in public as i can and I should be back on top in no time. I've told him that I don't actually feel bitter, that in fact I'm quite contented but he says that sounds like an excuse and that I should just 'act it' and eventually I'll feel it. It's sort of like how if you smile when you're sad, you'll eventually feel happy. I've taken to taping my mouth down into a frown but all it does is make me look more fetching and intriguing which draws people to me like moths to a flame which in turn makes me feel happy, counteracting the effect. It's a vicious cycle but I told him I'll do what has to be done even if it kills me which he says would be the best career move of all.
Now I don't want to alarm any of you but there have been some ominous developments on the Francesca Fiori front and so I am going to put the site on an 'Orange Alert' once again until I am certain everything is all right. The moment it is I will be giving the all clear. As well, I ran into Scott Thompson the other day and he told me that he will be performing in New York on the 23rd and 24th of March at a club called Comics and that he would love it if you would all come. I asked him if I could open for him but he said "No, he didn't need me this time but that he was sure that there would be something very exciting in the future." It sounded like a brush off so I told him so whereupon he said that I sounded bitter so I guess it's working. I asked him what he thought of my new bitter stance and he said it looked good on me. Maybe Uli is on to something.

Gabcast! ewe #32 - Let's Hear it For Showbusiness

This song was recorded in the late eighties to celebrate all things lurid, shiny and shallow, in other words showbusiness. Sal and I actually wrote lyrics to this song and even memorized them for the recording. The recording of course was done in our usual slapdash manner, this time aboard a leaky yacht in the Sargasso Sea on a Squidding trip which adds a that special Mouth Congress amateurishness to what is essentially one of our most polished pieces. I hope it's not too professional for ewe.



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Backstage Oscar Shenanigans

I think I've been too hard on Ellen. People keep telling me funny things she said and I have no recollection. I think I might have blacked out. At first I wasn't going to drink at all but then someone offered me a martini and so I was stuck. The truth is there was so much happening in the room that no one paid any attention to the proceedings.

First of all there was my dear friend, Costumer to the Stars if Canada had them, Dooley Fiizgerald, whose miniature shar-pei Jelly Roll had recently died. He was, as you can imagine, disconsolate but he managed to put on a brave face, albeit not the one he was born with. "Jelly will always be with me " he said to me tearfully at one point and I patted his knee and said "Of course he will Dooley." Then he reached over and picked up his knockoff Prada bag and opened it up and said "Look" and sure enough there was Jelly Roll nestled in the bottom of the huge bag amongst a pile of hard candies, kleenex and makeup.

"He's not mummified is he?" I asked in a reasonable manner.
"Oh no" protested Dooley. "I got him stuffed Buddy. The very best too. Doctor Desh Bindi. He came highly reccomended from Fermana Pahlavi. He did her yellow anaconda Harvey. He looks fabulous draped around her. They came to the Black and Blue Ball together. Stopped the show."
"Jelly looks different besides being dead and all." I said.
"Oh yes. I had his eyes done. Took off all those unsightly folds and flapdoodles. The poor thing could barely see when he was alive. It's the least I can do for him now that he's dead."
That's when Sal Surroundo asked me if I wanted a martini.

At one point one of Sal's boyfriends, I think it's the one with the tattoo of the skyline of Brampton on his chest, started a fight with the bartender Sal had hired. The boyfriend accused the bartender of putting mix in his drink and it soon escalated into a very loud discussion of what really went into the Pentagon on September llth. The bartender said it was a missile and the boyfriend said it was a bird. The only person in the room who thought it was a plane was Dick Cheney's visibly pregnant lesbian daughter who was visiting Sal. At one point the boyfriend started screaming "You're killing my country!" at which point the bartender said, "I'm American too" and then they collapsed into each other's arms sobbing like drunken Irishmen.

The highlight of the evening was when Peter Spizzie came on to Marco's mother, Bogva, (pictured above) who was visiting from Hungary. Peter is bisexual with a predilection for older eastern european women and younger pacific islander men. Even Margaret Mead couldn't make that connection. Marco's mother must be sixty five if if she's a day and doesn't look remotely like a Fijian boy. She had recently lost her husband on a trip to Hungary. The story was they had gone there on a trip to explore their roots and while they were investigating an old cave where her great grandparents had supposedly lived, the whole thing came down on them, killing him instantly and leaving her with a permanent dent in her head. There was no brain damage except she could suddenly speak fluent Hungarian, had no recollection of her husband and family and was suddenly a complete nymphomaniac. Naturally Marco was having a very difficult time with the whole situation and had recently insinuated himself back into his mother's life as her assistant. She had no idea who he was but they got along famously and he intended to tell her who he was when he asked for a raise. When his mother started making out with Peter in the kitchen he lost it. He threw down his plate of jellied eel and yelled at his mother to remember his father's good name. She just turned around and said "You're fired." then dissapeared into one of Sal's bedrooms with Peter. The rest of the evening is a blur which is where all my best ideas come from.

Gabcast! ewe #31 - Philadelphia Slave Girl

In honour of the unholy dysfunction and gothic drama of Oscar Night, I would like to offer up the most disturbing track that Mouth Congress ever recorded. Sal Surroundo, Barley Vep, Jack Smith and Uli Jewmar all contributed their unholy talents to this demented paean to slave girls around the world. Recorded in a cold cellar in Jack's country home, the entire musical swill was done in one take as usual but with one exciting addition. Before the recording everyone including Uli's actual consensual slave girl Crystal drank a jug of water and so throughout the session we are all fighting the urge to urinate. I think that's what gives the song it's frightening sense of urgency, that feeling that if you can't go, your bladder will explode and someone will eat it.





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Oscar Fallout Boy

My Thoughts on the Oscars

1) Ellen blew it. She has as much chance as hosting again as Mel Gibson.
2) Jack Nicholson should start bleaching his teeth or drink less cheerleader urine.
3) The opening looked like a film made by a slumming actor for a cell phone. They’re nominated for Oscars but they’re human. Genius. Those stars actually had to come in and tape the thing on an off day like they were on some sort of Canadian Awards Show. Humiliating.
4) Ellen was wearing my jacket. I can’t look at red velvet the same way ever again.
5) The most beautiful woman was the model standing behind the Best Cinematography winners.
6) Catherine Deneuve stole the show with her dress with the pierced breast broach. She and her co-presenter, the Japanese actor from ‘Iowa Jima’whose name escapes me looked like they had just had twisted Franco/Japo sex where blood was drawn. It was such a ‘Hunger’moment and definitely too foreign for the room. That’s when I could feel the audience pull back from all the immigrants on stage, even the Canadians which I think affected the reaction to Celine. Next year it will be Ron Howard and Rob Reiner’s year and Debbie Allen will be brought back to choreograph.
7) I say wear what you like but if I hosted the Oscars I wouldn’t wear a dress, at least not the entire show and I wouldn’t wear runners with it. Do Lesbians have to always have to dress comfortably? How come they love to camp and climb mountains and generally do lots of genuinely uncomfortable things like fire people but they won’t wear heels. This isn’t day time television for housewives. This is night time television for fags.
8) Beyonce is the perfect woman. She is cinammon. I want to be a mug of mulled cider and have her put her cinnamon stick in me. Have a field day Freud.
9) There were so many foreigners the crowd was looking like the English people at the Canadian Genies clapping for all the French winners they’ve never heard of and pretending it doesn’t bother them.
10) Pilobolus were magic. It was funny when Ellen said, “They’re naked.” It would have been nice if she’d done it again. That’s not fair. She was funny a few times. The Jews and Gays and boys named Oscar joke was funny but she lost them when she started to dance. And can we agree that black choirs have to go. Even in black churches. Surely they’re tired of all the swaying and the clapping. There are other ways for white performers to ignite a fire under people's seats and I don't mean arson. I mean costume changes and choreography. And by choreography I don't mean freestyle soccer mom frugging after a wine cooler, I mean actual steps rigorously rehearsed under a sadistic gay latin dance master. What's that? My best friend Marco who just dropped by to return my bubble maker, just told me that there weren’t any black choirs on the telecast but I think he’s incorrect. He was drunker than me which proves my point and brings me to my next one.
11) I don’t really watch the Oscars. I talk and judge and drink and laugh with my friends and then I look at the highlights the next day to see if what I think I saw is actually what I saw. It usually isn’t but that doesn’t stop me from pronouncing hither and yon.
12) That being said, the funniest moment was Meryl Streep giving Anne Hathaway and the other one the Prada glare. That’s what Britney needs. Can you imagine her looking up from doing a line off of Paris’s tit and seeing Miss Streep looking at her like that. It would be better than rehab. It wouldn’t stop Paris though. She’d laugh it off, probably call Meryl a hack and keep sucking, not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Gabcast! ewe #30 - John Belushi

Mouth Congress goes down into the muck and slime of Hollywood perversion to get at the root of self destruction. Guest vocalist Gaventry Glossary, known to legions as the Mad Duke of Fuck and my third cousin, downs a bottle of Jack Daniels and heads on down to the Devil's rec room. There the ghoulish bass rhythms of actual vampire Jack Smith and the crazed propulsive beats of Hale Hardy on drums carry Gaventry down even further into the abyss until the entire Mouth Congress legacy hangs by a thread over a pool of vomit. This song cost one of our members very dearly when Gaventry lost control of his voice during a performance in Chi-town and hit a note so high it severed backup vocalist Lynne Shawshank's achilles tendon, ruining her career as an ankle model. The investigation said that it was more likely the shattered glass from his dropped bottle of Jack Daniels but I'm in the business of legend building not CSI. Besides we'll never really know as Gaventry dissapeared soon after never to be heard from again or at least that's the legend. Others say he works in Orilia at Starbucks as a cafetiere. which for a man like Coventry is the same thing.




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Barbra Reconsidered

I’m watching Barbra Streisand in ‘Hello Dolly’ and I just have to say, I adore it. And Barbra is to die and then come back and die again and then come back one more time with embalming fluid in you like in ‘Trilogy of Terror’. Her singing is sublime, her comic touch is as light as air and her hand dancing is non pareil. She’s like a Jungian psychiatrist manipulating her own shadow. ‘Hello Dolly’ is not the poor cousin to ‘Funny Girl’ but the more talented sister of ‘Yentl ’and Barbra Streisand is not just a ‘talentless hag with lighting issues ’as Marco refers to her. She’s a great star, maybe not the ‘greatest’, that’s still Bugs, but when she walks down that staircase to the horny waiters singing the title song I want to be her and if I can’t be her, then I want to be the carpet. I want her to crush me beneath her lace up boots. It’s all or nothing.

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.




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The Return of Rita

Well, she’s gone. My little handy princess who could re-wire a blender while preparing a smoothie in it, is gone and my call display is still not working. Rita her mother came back early from her week in Phoenix at the Stargate SG-I Convention. A few days after all the excitement at the Council Meeting, the doorbell rang. Fagette was in the kitchen making breakfast and I was lounging about the living room reading the paper.

“I’ll get it.” I called out langorously.”
“It’s okay. I’m closer.” yelled back Fagette. “
“That makes sense.” I agreed. “How close to show time?”
“I’m done.” she called back. A moment later I heard my sister Rita’s croaky voice from the hall.
“ Hi. Are you ready to go?” Then I heard the sound of a plate dropping and I thought, ‘There goes breakfast.’

“Hurry and get your stuff. Didier’s in the car and it’s running ” continued Rita. As if on cue, he gunned the engine.
“But you’re supposed to come tomorrow ” came Fagette’s thin reply.
“Something came up. Didier has a job interview” said Rita.
I came into the foyer, wiping my hands on a tea towel as if I was just doing the dishes. “Hi Rita. You’re early.” I gestured to Fagette who was already picking up the pieces of the broken plate from the floor. “Don’t worry about that. I hated that plate anyway. I think it was haunted”
“I know I’m early but you know how it is. I would have call but we were so busy.”
“That’s okay. Did you meet Richard Dean Anderson?” She looked at me like I’d just asked how her genital warts were doing, which I would never do. I mean how well can genital warts ever be said to be doing.
“Who? ” she asked me blankly.
“Richard Dean Anderson the silver fox star of Stargate SG-I. Did you get his autograph?”
"Oh yeah. No. It was too crowded."
There was no convention. They probably spent the week downtown drinking in a cheap hotel.
Suddenly she bolted out onto the street and yelled at her car.“ Stop beeping the fucking horn!” The window came down and a man who was definitely not Didier leaned out the window and yelled back “ I’m not touching it!” It was true. He wasn’t. “Well somebody was!” she screamed back at him.

She re-entered the house and grabbed Fagette’s hand.“ Where’s your baby powder?”
“In my bag.”
“Get it. We’re going.”
Fagette looked up at me with eyes that were so big and wounded that they would break the most hardened anime mother’s heart. “Do I have to Uncle Buddy?”
“Yes. Your mother needs to go.”
“Ker” she said and started morosely up the stairs.
I turned back to Rita. “So who’s that in the car?”
“Didier.”
“That wasn’t Didier.”
“Yes it was. You just don’t remember ” she said.
“Of course I do. Didier may be many things but he’s not bald.“
“Look it’s Fagette’s dad. We’re trying to get back together, okay.”
“That’s great.” I enthused. “Bring him in. I’d love to meet him.”
“I don’t think so.’
“Why? Is there something wrong with me? ” I asked, knowing how ridiculous the question was.
“He might not feel right talking to a man in a thong” she responded. It was true. My silk robe had come open and my thong and its contents were exposed for the entire world to see. Somewhere a fairy died. I went on. “I’ve been test driving different underwear for various companies to make extra money but if its any consolation to you this particular undergarment is getting a very low mark.”

“I can’t find Uday.” Fagette had come clomping down the stairs.
“That’s all right pancake.” I said. I’ll tell him goodbye for you. Don’t forget your coat.” I walked over to the closet and pulled out the new sheared beaver coat I’d bought for her.
“Where the hell is she going to wear that?” asked Vanessa.
“At a Circuit Party with nothing else on underneath.” Fagette suggested. I silently cursed Marco.
“ What the hell’s she talking about?”
“Nothing. It’s something she heard on a sitcom.”
“Goodbye Uncle Buddy. I had a great time.”
“Me too.”
“Come on. Allez! Let’s go “ urged her mother.
I bent down to hug my niece and smelled baby powder. She whispered in my ear.
“ Call Roble.”
“I will.”
“Thanks for taking her, eh. Will you do it again?” she asked.
“ Absolutely. I need some excitement now and then.”
“ I don’t want to know.”

I walked them to their car but whoever the guy was in the car, her father or not, he wouldn’t even roll down the windows to say ‘Hi’ but to be fair it was a windy day. I didn’t watch them drive out of sight because I didn’t want to be seen crying in public. The last time that happened, the entire city went into a funk. I couldn’t risk that happening again, especially in February, so I went back inside and immediately called a cab.

The End
for now

Gabcast! ewe #27 - Pecker Banks: Brenda Goes Awol/Umbrella of the Ages

Pecker and the gang come back for another visit. Talented weather girl Brenda Martinez goes awol for a live report and the talented man at Versatile Ursula Umbrella tries to save the day with his magical umbrella.




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The Shortest Way Home

It turns out Boti was Roble’s uncle and that they shared the cab we were in. Roble had come to City Hall to pick his uncle up and had been in the auditorium when the commotion began. That’s why he was there to rescue me. Actually I was rescued twice today. I’m getting lazy. It’s my turn now. Uncle Boti, I already thought of him that way, graciously offered to drop Fagette and I off at my place. I said we could pay but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“Don’t be so obstreporous Mr. Buddy. Your daughter must be dropped off immediately. She’s been through such tremendous stress.”
“ I feel great.” piped up Fagette.”
“That’s just the shock talking. I should know. I’ve been in shock more times than George Chuvalo. My god, even in retirement, he’s a punching bag. And she’s not my daughter. She’s my niece.”
“Even better “ he chirped. We are both uncles then. I think we shall be great friends.”
“I think we shall too.” I said.

I stared about the cab taking in all the colourful occupants, There was Uncle Boti, the chess champion of Somalia in the driver’s seat, Vanessa the fierce baby dyke riding shotgun in a cocoanut bra, and in the back on the right, Roble, the fighting film maker from the Horn and the story’s romantic love interest. Beside him, sat Fagette, my niece from the provinces with the work ethic of Cinderella but none of the airs , snug in the middle, a hand on both our thighs, and then of course, me on the left, no description needed, right by the trigger, I suddenly knew that I would know these people for the rest of life. Everyone except the last guy.

“So where do you live my friend? ” Uncle Boti asked me.
“Oh, uh, 44 Ranleigh.” I said, coming out of my reverie.
“ I apologize. I don’t know where that is as I am only been driving for one week “ he replied.
“Okay, we go down Yangtze until we get to Victoria, I mean Charles, then we take a left and we go six blocks, maybe more, it’s about a mile, well you stay on it until you get to Lincoln, where you take a right I think…“
“No no no.” said Vanessa“
“No?” I said.
“I have a better way” she helpfully suggested.
“Um, I think I know how to get to my own home. After all I actually live there.” I helpfully suggested back.
“How long?” she asked snarkily.
“A month.” I replied brightly. She jumped out of her seat and punched the air.
“I knew it. “ She turned around in her seat and thrust her face towards mine and yelled, “Suckah.” Then she turned back to Uncle Boti and began to bark directions at him.
“Turn right at Crandle, go three blocks to Slurry where you go left, go two blocks, turn left at the Bargain Pickle onto Ranleigh and it should be there about three doors in on the…left..”
Uncle Boti looked at me in the rearview mirror for guidance.
“Let’s let the driver decide.” I said.
Boti, a diplomat at heart, began slowly like he was approaching a cobra to kiss on the head.”
“Well, obviously the person whose destination it is, should probably know the most appropriate way to get there but that is not always the case. However that is not to say that the other gentleman doesn’t have a point.”
“I’m not a gentleman. I’m a dyke.”
“Well then in that case, you win.” he said, stepping on the gas,
” I hope everybody’s got their passports and a change of clothes. We might be away for a few days.” I said.
“We’re here.” Said Boti.

I looked outside. Sure enough we were..
“I told you.” gloated Vanessa.
“Actually we’re on the other side of the street.” I countered.
Boti made as if to do a U-turn but I stopped him.
“That’s not necessary Uncle Boti. Fagette and I will just rush across two lanes of rush hour traffic.”
“Don’t be foolish” he said, wheeling the cab around and depositing us on the correct side of the street. .
“At least someone’s got manners.” I said.
“I think someone’s forgetting that I saved their ass.” said Vanessa.
“You should have saved your own. It needs it more.” I replied.
She came at me from the front seat but of course the partition stopped her. She continued to hammer away at it anyway. I turned to Roble to say goodbye.

“Will she be all right?”
“She’ll be fine. She really likes you.”
“I like her too. She’s got a pretty face.”
We both turned to look at Vanessa as she pressed her face against the glass and mouthed an obscenity.
“I had a really wonderful time.” I said, taking his hand.
“Me too ” he said, putting his other one over it like a shell game.
“I’d like to see you again. ” either one of us said.
“Me too ” we both replied.
Then he handed me a card. It was for his cab company ‘The Horn’. “This is the number of the cab company. Call us. There’s only me and Uncle. Goodnight Fagette.”

He kissed her on the top of the head and she kind of bobbled it like a penguin who just got a delicious chill. Then she threw her arms around him and hugged him. The door was suddenly yanked open from outside. Vanessa was standing there laughing.
“I gotta hand it to you, you are one funny motherfu..’
She looked at Fagette and stopped midword.
“ker” said Fagette.
“Well, we must go.” I said.

Vanessa suddenly hugged me. “Take care Buddy. I got your back.” Then she released me and got back in the cab and we watched them as they drove away. When they were out of sight, I asked Fagette a question.
“Where did you learn that word?”
“Rita is my mother’ she replied…

To be continued…

Gabcast! ewe #26 - Lesbians on the Rise

Lesbians are on the rise and Mouth Congress is there to witness all the action. Join us as we join them unless you're them in which case, join us as we join you.




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