I spent most of last
Saturday trying to convince a gay friend of mine that I could make a better
lesbian than Ellen DeGeneres but she just couldn’t buy it. After a lot of
factual arguments I decided the only way would be to show her practically. Then
I started fumbling with my fly and already, I’d lost because there’s nothing as
anti-lesbian as flaunting one’s dick.
She’s my definition of
a friend. Just a friend.
She shows up in my
room and the first thing she says is, “Arthur, I need two things – a Coke and
an ash tray.”
She’s real down to
earth and I warm up to her even if I’ve taken long without seeing her. It is
not the same with other girls. Girls make me nervous. So I met this girl not so
long ago. I was totally blown over by her. I’m talking that butterflies and
rainbows kind of smitten. We started dating. No, not dating, courting. Those
are two different things.
I thought things were
not so bad. As a matter of fact I’d bought her a sweater for her birthday.
Don’t judge the present - my mummy does all my shopping. But that’s of no
consequence. The thing is I didn’t get around to giving it to her.
Why?
Because I called
someone a f*ggot.
A horrible thing to say,
I must admit. The truth is; if someone sits with their knees pressed together
and their feet apart and they illustrate everything with their pinkie finger
and they wrap a sweater around their waist and they elongate the last word of
every sentence and they roll their eyes and are overly picky with details, I’ll
call that fag a fucking fag.
Okay, maybe something
softer like a homo in denial.
I think Ugandans are
blowing this whole thing out of proportion. There’s nothing wrong with being
gay. All of us are gay in one way or another.
Here’s what I think we
should do with this whole homosexual debate. Let us attend pro – gay functions.
And let the gays also attend anti – gay workshops. Let’s not wear those
dreadful, peculiar masks and argue about such and such. Let’s not point fingers
on what should go where. Let’s look for souls to convert. Say what’s up to that
lesbian. Flash a little more cleavage than necessary for that gay dude. Talk
nice and take him or her back home. Make love to him meticulously. If possible,
spare thirty minutes to go through a few pages of the Kama Sutra. Bang her in
eight different languages (no, not gagging and all that S & M doodle).
Trust me after round
three, they’ll gasp and say, “Thank you for sexing me – I feel as straight as a
brand new Haco School Ruler!”
But if by morning that
person still wants to be gay, shrug it off and move on to the next workshop.
Very many people are
in this thing for all the wrong reasons. Don’t be gay because every girl you
try to vibe gives you that talk-to-tha-hand thing before you introduce
yourself. Rather, work on your pick up line! And just because you’ve never had
an orgasm doesn’t mean you should turn gay because you watched all of William H’s
Elegant Angel pornos. Those bitches have orgasms that last longer than my two
previous relationships combined and it is almost always girl on girl.
Lesbians are the most
awesome people to hang out with in this entire universe. I don’t know how they
do it. It is like that they have that extra chromosome that spells Y.O.L.O. The
problem comes when I approach a lesbian because of her gangster attitude and
she thinks I’m trying to get in her pants. Okay, maybe I am but don’t make it
so obvious. FYI, hanging with lesbians is the closest you'll get to an all
expenses paid orgy. And gay dudes buy the most booze in night clubs. For some
reason they’re always stacked. They have the finest wardrobes and an easy going
humor that keeps them surrounded by the most exquisite babes.
So, quit segregation
and hang with everyone. Who knows, they could even upgrade your archaic style.
I was honestly
surprised that this girl would want to break things off with me because I’d
called someone gay. She gave me the whole I
don’t think we can’t survive this, let’s just be friends or nothing lecture.
I was offended! I mean if you’ve put it on the table that you don’t want to see
me anymore, let it be over something more relevant than the second rate writer
of some bullshit “novel”.
Say, a dirty boxer.
Or a status update.
Or a call to my mother
asking her to teach me how to unclip a bra.
I know; I am an
impossible guy to date or court or whatever involves two people spending 15
minutes in one room. As a matter of fact, I would never date me in my right
mind. In short, it wasn’t her fault. It must be hard getting courted by someone
who hasn’t figured out a reason to wake up in the morning. I think we should
blame it on Saturn. Or Jupiter – whichever one is being an asshole.
I don’t need her to
draw me diagram to know that even if I dived head first into the Grand Canyon,
she’d be perfectly fine. But the thing is I let myself think that maybe this
girl must honestly like me for the colossal failure I am. I forgot the words of
my big bro. When you fall for someone, don’t let them know everything about you
because the person who brings out the best in you also becomes your greatest
weakness.
After she dropped me,
I lost it. I was dropped from the Writivism competition. I made up my mind
never to write again. Because she’s my mojo and when I write, I envision
talking to her. I quit alcohol and smoking. I sulked up for a few days in this
really dark room. I watched White Collar and Scandal, cooked bad food and did
lots of sit-ups (you should check out my abs).
Then I realized hey, she’s
not actually my mojo! I was writing long before I met her. My mojo was and will
always be marijuana and vodka. So I picked up my lighter, emptied my glass and
wrote this piece during today’s little hours.
I would like to
apologize to you, my dear readers for the previous post. I would never quit
writing. A heartbreak, like the devil, comes in many guises. Now that my heart
is ripped out and stamped on, by natural law, something else took up that
space. Expect some real sicko wacko shizzzy ma nigger and feel free to call me
the Devil’s Advocate.
Yeah, I’m back to speaking
Criminese and calling bitches by days of the week.
Sunday had better get
out of my sheets and Monday should snap shut her makeup bag, pick up Season 2
of Scandal and make her way here pronto.
Posts
