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Archive for the ‘Booze!’ Category

I have another episode of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM) to share.  I know how much you bitches love to mock my pain, so I’m sure you are absolutely tingling with joy.  You will be glad to hear that you aren’t the only ones who love to mock my pain.  In fact, the RDP* is a frequent–and by frequent I mean constant–mocker (is that even a word?) of my pain.

Let me lay the foundation for this episode.  Yesterday, I was turned on (pun intended) to Davey Wavey.  Who is that, you ask?  Well, he is only the best set of man-tits on the Internets, ladies and gentlemen, to wit:

Hottie

Titsy McBooberson

Plus, he’s sweet and funny and a little dirty, and I would like him to be my future RDP.  Oh, and he has a great website to which you should pay constant attention, just like mine (yeah, mine peckerheads).

So, as the RDP and I were getting ready to go out and drink my favorite new drink, the Vieux Carré, the following Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM) conversation occurred:

Moi:  Honey-Pie-Fart-Face-Saggy-Butt-Snookums-Pants [he absolutely LOVES terms of endearment], you have to come check out this new, hot, gay vlogger/blogger that I found today.  I can’t believe our dirty, horny gay friends didn’t already tell us about this guy, because he is infinitely adorable.

RDP:  Is he brown?

Moi:  What?  Is he brown?  What in the fuck are you talking about?  Do you mean like his skin color?

RDP:  Yes.  You know how I like my boys a little brown.

Now, let me interrupt your reading pleasure right here.  I know that some of you are keeping tabs on me and putting me together like a carefully-crafted puzzle because you are nosey and think I have something to hide, besides the bodies.  Well, let me give you another piece of the puzzle:  I am not brown.  I am not a little brown.  Now, I have had a little brown in me–if you know what I mean–but unless and until I have baked myself in the sun for 43 days in a row, I am pale.  And by pale I mean iceberg blue.  In fact, probably only about 5 shades darker than this guy:

Albino

No, I'm not an Albino. Dickwads.

Where were we?

Moi:  You dated one Asian boy for all of 17 minutes and had relations with [Anonymous African-American Friend] one drunken evening, and suddenly you like your boys to have brown skin?

RDP:  I’ve always liked my boys to have brown skin.

Moi:  Ummm, WHAT ABOUT ME???

RDP:  I don’t know what happened.  Now, go get in the shower and come out tan.

Moi (under my breath):  Why I oughtta come over there and show you just how brown I can be by doing whatever brown people would do to you for dissing me and my pasty white, wrinkled, saggy skin, you cracker.

Oh, but it doesn’t end there, because whilst I was in the shower, the RDP sat down at my computer and viewed Davey Wavey in all his shirtless glory.  So, when I emerged from the shower, dripping wet, naked, humiliated, and not even one single shade darker than when I went in, the conversation continued:

Moi:  So, isn’t Davey Wavey adorable?  Should we invite him to be our houseboy?

RDP:  I stand corrected.  You could have come out of the shower more tan or more porcelain, like Davey Wavey.

Moi (imagined):  MOTHER FUCKER YOU BETTER SHUT YOUR PIE HOLE BEFORE I CHOKE THE LIVING SHIT RIGHT OU . . . .(hands around throat, thumbs pressing on Adam’s Apple)

RDP (also imagined):  *gurgle* *gasp*

And then we went to Toulouse Petit and I drank so many Vieux Carrés that I could no longer feel the emotional pain of being “not brown enough” and “not porcelain enough.”

Thus concludes another amazing episode of Extravagant Gay Lifestyle (TM).  Again, you will note for the record that gay relationships, like mine, are just as abusive as any straight relationship.  And just as alcoholic.  Now, I must drown myself in another bottle of wine, while my RDP is in Central America for work this week.

Wait.  What color are the people in Central . . . Oh you little mother fuc . . . . I am calling a divorce lawyer!

*Registered Domestic Partner (when are you going to remember?)

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It is Tuesday night.  I hear my phone chime the sweet sound of a new text message at 6:30 p.m.  I am sure it is my Registered Domestic Partner texting me that he is on his way home and that he can’t wait to see me and/or get his hands on me.

[Ed. Note:  That would never fucking happen in a million years, even if HorseKnuckle was not only the hottest man on the planet but also the last fucking man on the planet.]

I am correct.  It is my Registered Domestic Partner-thingy sending me a text.  To-mother fucking-wit:

RDP:  I am going to go out with [co-worker] for a bite to eat.

RDP:  Ok?

Me (in my head):  Absolutely.  I’m just at home right now COOKING YOU A DELICIOUS MEAL, YOU CUNT.

Me (in my head):  Don’t worry about me.  I’ve just been at home all day by myself talking to our two dogs who keep trying to avoid me talking to them by hiding in the basement so they can nap.  I’m fine.  You go out and have a great time and come home all full of yummy food and drunk from delicious, expensive bottles of wine that the company is going to pay for.

And then I remembered.  Today, a cute UPS guy knocked on my door and asked me to sign for not one, not two, but three BOXES of wine, including a Napa Valley wine you’ve never heard of along with a box of love from L’Ecole No. 41 and–are you sitting down right now?–a box from Cayuse.

So, I responded:

Me:  Ok.

Me:  I will stay home and drink all of the wine we received today.

Me (in my head):  So, fuck off.

So, if you think gay relationships are any different that straight relationships, you are FULL OF SHIT and/or wine, like me.  Which is why you should support full marriage equality for gay Washingtonians, because–for better or worse, as they say–we are exactly like you.

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Hey, kiddies!  It’s that time of year again, when you dart out in front of cars in the dark dressed as snot-nosed brats, and I laugh maniacally as I step on the gas.  This year, Uncle HorseKnuckle has a special treat for you trick-o-treaters:

Booze

Miniatures! With love, Uncle HK.

You can have as many as your little, weak livers desire, but you have to drink them before you leave my doorstep and then hand the empty to me.  Why?  Because Uncle HorseKnuckle is a responsible citizen who recycles.  See you Monday!

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Good news bitches:

“Moderate drinking, which is defined as one to three drinks per day, is associated with the lowest mortality rates in alcohol studies.”

Don’t believe me?  Read it and weep.  God knows I am.  But wait, it gets better:

. . . [T]he researchers . . . found that over a 20-year period, mortality rates were highest for those who were not current drinkers, . . . second highest for heavy drinkers and lowest for moderate drinkers. 

Music to my ears.  Take that, teetotalers!  And quit judging me.

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