You know, it wasn’t until the Presidential debates that I discovered how utterly stupid is our President Bush. Before then, I was always the guy who argued in defense of the President’s intelligence. Not that I was a Bush fan or anything, I always believed you can not be an idiot and be the President of the United States at the same time.
Then came the debates and oh man did Bush look like someone who just fell off the turkey truck. Especially after the third debate, when he was asked if homosexuality was a choice and he responded, “I don’t know.”
Holy mother of wow!
How could a thinking human being in the twenty-first freaking century still believe that homosexuals choose to be gay?
Homosexuals didn’t choose to be gay any more than the President chose to be an idiot. I can see not knowing if it’s genetic, or upbringing, or a combination of both that makes a person queer. But to believe that homosexuals just one day up and decided to go gay is a sure sign that you are some kind of idiot turd.
“Hey Pat, I’ll think I’ll go gay today.”
“Really, Jim, why’s that?”
“There’s just something about the gay lifestyle that really attracts me. You know, rejection, estrangement, incessantly pounding techno music, loneliness, despair – it’s like a dream life.”
As for whether homosexuality is in the upbringing or genetics, it just so happens I know the answer: It’s genetics! Sure, most scientists refute this. They say there is no evidence to support the existence of a “gay gene.” But I know for a fact that gay genes exist. I know because I have one.
Granted, it’s dormant mostly. My gay gene usually just lounges on a micro-nuclear couch, sipping on rusty nails and watching the fashion channel. But then, for some inexplicable reason, it starts acting all gay and shit.
It’s embarrassing to admit. I prefer to think of myself as a manly man: I watch sports and drink beer. I dress slovenly. I bellow more often than I speak. I have an interminable compulsion to control the remote control. I say things like, “Hand me that hammer, Barney.” I don’t go shopping unless absolutely necessary. I sit with my hand behind my head and my legs a mile wide. I consider myself a fairly masculine person, but sometimes, suddenly, inexplicably, I’ll go gay.
For instance last week, my wrist went limp. Just like that, for no apparent reason. I was walking down Newport Avenue being all straight and shit when I noticed my hand was limply dangling on the end of my arm like it had fainted. I just stopped in mid-stride and looked down at the thing. What the hell is this? I thought. I’ve got a limp wrist? How can that be?
Pox on you gay gene!”
One time I found myself literally jumping for joy. How queer is that? Some gal at the bar gave me a twenty dollar tip and I started jumping up and down and clapping like I just won the Oscar for Best Actress. I did that for about 5 seconds before I stopped cold and thought, Waiiiit a minute? Real Men do not jump up and down for joy. The only time men are allowed to jump for joy is when their favorite sports team wins a championship, with lots of high-fiving, and shoving, and elbowing each other, unlike the Red Sox who jumped for joy the gay way when they won the World Series.
More evidence that a gay gene exists is in my taste in music. While I adore manly-man bands like Sabbath, Sinatra, Motorhead and Rage, I also love the shit out of Wham, Cher, Madonna and the Red Sox Fight Song. I dig show tunes. I enjoy incessantly pounding techno music. And I think Upstairs at Eric’s by Yaz is the second best dance album ever recorded – knowing full well that something really gay must’ve happened at Eric’s, upstairs.
How about this disturbing proof of my lingering homo-genetics: sometimes when I’m drinking coffee, my pinky involuntarily extends upward like some elderly southern dame at tea time. I’ll just be innocently tilting the cup into my mouth when – slam-bam thank you Wham – I notice a little bitty hand-boner wagging in the wind, a flagellating testament to my latent queernesses.
O’ Gay gene, must thou torment me?
Thankfully, aside from my gay gene, I also have the gay bashing gene. Whenever my gay gene decides to go cruising, my gay bashing genes gang up and beat the shit out it.
That’ll teach a gene to be all gay and shit.
“Up the road from Third Base to Huntington
The boys will always sing and sway. . .
From “Tessie” – the unofficial fight song of the Boston Red Sox (and quite gay).
EJD
10/27/04