If today, June 10th, is your birthday…
You share it with John Edwards and Elliot Spitzer.
Maybe Anthony Weiner will buy you all a cake.
…Shaped like a PENIS!
OHHH!
Zung.
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You know how I know I’m…Uh…In favor of Prop 19?
It’s like…I’m inside… a giant, glass, of waaater, I thought, standing motionless in the shower, Saturday night.
Yeeeahhh. Akin to the moment of realization that you are finally falling asleep, it is when the crazy, arduous to articulate thoughts begin that you also know you’re…
Uh…
That you’re…
…
What was I typing about?
Operation Don’t Fuck It Up.
“What should his code name be?” My friend Liana asked as we speed walked to dodgeball a couple Tuesdays ago.
“Nothing! I love his name!” I gushed. “I want to say it all the time!”
“Maybe not in West Hollywood, though,” she suggested. “What if someone overhears?”
“Let ‘em!” I continued, manically. “It’ll all be good. I’m not going to say anything TOO crazy.”
“Yeah…” Her tone didn’t match the consensus usually implied by the word.
“Do you think I’m already getting too crazy?!” I gasped.
“Not yet,” she smiled, “but it’s just that everyone’s red alert button is at a different sensitivity level and you never know what might scare someone else off.”
“Hmm…Fair point,” I acquiesced. “I’ve never met another gay man with his same name. What should we call him, then?”
“Dishes!” We both concluded at once.
Inarguably, linking this piece to the stream of other, thinly veiled references to this particular crush negates the stealth method of classification Liana hath suggested. Especially as his commenting, “What a fortunate homeless man,” beneath my Facebook post directing friends to the first instance made it quite clear that he knows I am writing about him. However, Dishes has already disregarded my affections. Thus, while unfortunate, exposing his alias is no longer kamikaze in nature.
And at least it was through a face-to-face interaction that our potential pairing was botched. Operation Be Bold And Follow His Text Cues And Him To MJ’s In Silver Lake After He Left The Eagle Without Saying Goodbye Even Though We Had Made It Known To One Another Earlier In The Week That We Would Both Start Our Nights There And Most Likely Finish It And Each Other Off At My New Bungalow – to be as transparent as the Obama administration once promised. Although expertly strategized, his friends’ churlish reaction of, “SERIOUSLY?!” when aghast upon witnessing the completion of my mission confirmed the need to abort any plans for continued pursuit.
Apparently they saw me as more of a STALKER than a romantic warrior. But again, rather that I watched myself shoot myself in the heart than to have had an acquaintance of his do it for me by relaying that a fit, shaggy haired white boy with a propensity for self-made sleeveless attire had been overheard publicly rhapsodizing about falling in love with him after just one date. In that sense: I consider Operation Don’t Fuck It Up to have been a success.
Now on to the next target!
Republicans do romp.
Word on the Tweets is that Sarah Palin got a boob job. Nothing quite like a fresh, faux pair to say,
“Drill [me] baby, DRILL [ME]!”
Too bad moose-sized knockers are sure to make holding onto her rifle a whole lot more difficult. Especially whilst picking off wolves from a helicopter.
