by Adrian Ryan
That goddamn dress is gold and white, I’m telling you, GOLD AND WHITE!
Y’all need Jesus and a program.
Anyway. LET ME MAKE ONE THING CLEAR: I don’t care HOW many awards shows Neil Patrick Harris takes a big steaming dump all over – that little sexmuffin could still totally get it. Did you see smoking-hot little him in his adorable tighty-whiteys? Holy Moses at a mattress sale.
Totally. Get. It. I’m telling you.
And has anyone heard any word from and/or about that unfortunate back-up dancer who stepped on Madonna’s cape or whatever and almost ripped her head off? Any word at all? No. I didn’t think so. Time to dredge the river for the pieces, I suppose.
So I’ve had something on my mind lately, and it’s twinks, bears, otters, and other naturally occurring gay wildlife. These terms! You know? I am simply not a fan.
Okay, fine, “bears” I can hardly take umbrage with, as let’s face it, they are just so CUTE! Besides, they pretty much named themselves that, and the term “bear” is rarely used to disparage or attack. Otter is merely stupid (as is wolf—derp, derp, derp), but it’s “twink” that really makes my gorge rise. What a horrid word! It’s dismissive, scornful, alienating, and just plain rude, all at the same time somehow, and I, for one, think “twink” like individuals are lovely, and delightful, and a great way to spend that $20 in your pocket that ain’t workin’ too hard. (KIDDING! Kidding.) At the very least, we need something new. Like sexmuffins maybe, or Delightful Younger Fellows I May or May Not Like to Fuck (or, “DYFIMOMNLTFs”. Too much?) Anyway, if you’re not a twink and you call someone a “twink”, what you are is a rude old perv, and if you are a twink and you call yourself, “twink, then you are kind of an insufferable twat, now aren’t you?
Don’t answer that.
Oh! And speaking of all that, sort of (but not really): please to not forget that tonight is simply the naughtiest and new-ish-est Nark night at The Eagle, called ARF! As you might surmise from the name, it’s for all of you total freaks who are into “puppy play”, and (filthy) costumes are encouraged (think floppy hears and butt-plug tails). I’ll see you there, right? Yeah. I thought so. Jesus and a program. I’m serious.
And lastly: MY GOD, I am such a liar. I don’t know how I live with myself. So last week I said that Julia’s on Broadway wasn’t even bothering to do RPDR Season 7 viewing parties anymore because OVER IT, but now I guessed they’ve changed their minds or something, so if you decide you are going to Julia’s on a Monday to AVOID watching the damn thing, well, you’re shit out of luck, bub, as my dear old grandma Lois used to say. (She had a mouth, that one.) But that’s not all! You also have the delightful option of watching the damn thing at Diesel with your trucker-mouthed, thoroughly prolapsed hostess Honey Bucket (and a room full of BEARS, groooooowl!), or, of course, I suppose you COULD come down to that sports bar on Pike called Slide 95 and watch it with Kaleena Markos, James Majesty, and, well, lil’ ole ME, ahem-hem. You know. If you wanted to.
And you want to. You know you do.