Abominations I have known

I committed ten abominations this week!

Guess which ones!

The Bible is fun!

What Pride Means to Me, Part Deux

You may remember the greatest blog post of all time, published a year ago this week, entitled "What Pride Means to Me."  

Then again, maybe you don't remember it, since a whopping two of you motherfuckers commented on it.  Well, fucking click on the link and read it now.  Yes, it's that good.  And yes, my contempt for you is that great.  

Well, it's another year, and another pride has come and gone, and, amazingly, I did nothing for which I should be ashamed this year.  Now, that's probably because all of my friends have learned their lessons and stopped inviting me to anything, but still, it feels good to sit here and type this without knowing that I have various clothing items scattered throughout Manhattan, in the possession of men who know me only as Big Dick Perkins.

[Ten bucks for whoever gets that reference first]

[Seriously]

So I started this post on the eve of Pride's end, and am finishing it now two weeks later.  Which has given me time to reflect on a few important lessons:

1.  Dudes you meet during Pride do not exist beyond Pride.  Do not try to call them.  

2.  Do not read the portion of your blog entry you drafted two weeks ago before writing the rest.  

3.  There is nothing more productive for furthering the cause of gay rights than dressing up like women and parading around like a merry band of fairies, all the while shilling for chewing gum and/or lube companies.  

4.  Yes, I know I owe you a sestina.  You'll get it, and get it good.

5.  Lists are for assholes.  

6.  I'm gonna be an uncle!  YAYAYAYAYAYAY!!!!  Seriously, World's Best Uncle.  Right here.

7.  Yes, I still love you all.  

Gay Ninja Robot wishes He could go back to High School

Confession: Gay Ninja Robot is not made of metal alone. He has a brother, His own flesh and blood [Ed.: Does that phrase even apply to siblings?], a brother who, despite making significantly less pre-tax than GNR, manages to still pull in more post-tax. GNR is calling the IRS, bro, so look out, foo.

[Ed.: Who says “look out, foo?” Mr. T? Is this your tough guy act? This may explain why you get no takers in the “m4m ilikeitrough” chatroom.]

So, GNR’s brother earns his keep by defrauding college admissions offices into thinking pampered little UES Mindy Sue von Farthingsworth-types are worth the price of admission to Princeton even though their old money bluebloodedness has so thoroughly overtaken their veins that their report cards resemble Nate Dogg lyrics, there are so many F-bombs. [Ed.: Nate Dogg? Really? That’s the best you can do?!?! Still, clever clever.]

Which brings us to tonight’s post: GNR’s triumphant return to high school, undertaken for the sole purpose of getting those last ten points on the SAT verbal that the College Board so rebarbatively wrested from his grasp.

I mean, really, how the fuck is GNR supposed to know what diffident means?!?!?!

And now on to the substance of tonight’s post. GNR will take on, with a resplendence only He could attempt, to instruct His younger viewers on how the essay question from the most recent SAT exam should have been answered. Mind you, none of you are as smart as GNR, or as handsome or well-hung, so when you read this, do so not with an eye towards equaling His effort, but with an eye instead towards His sumptuous buttocks. What follows is the question in question, and three proposed opening paragraphs in response. [Ed.: And yes, this is the actual May 2008 SAT essay question, word for mentally retarded word.]

Technological advances have freed society from tiresome labor, such as washing clothes by hand, hauling heavy loads, and walking long distances, and have given people increased access to information and entertainment. Yet, when given a choice, many people still resist using modern conveniences. There must be something to be gained from not using technology.

Assignment:
Are there benefits to be gained from avoiding the use of modern technology, even when using it would make life easier? Plan and write an essay in which you develop your point of view on this issue. Support your position with reasoning and examples taken from your reading, studies, experience, or observations.

Answer 1 (Amish student):
I agree that modern technology is not always a good thing for people to have. My father always is telling me that he doesn’t trust technology and would prefer to continue washing clothes by hand, hauling heavy loads, and walking long distances. When people show him their washing machines and wheelbarrows and horses, he says no thanks, but he doesn’t trust those things and is unwilling to try using a washing machine even once to see if it can clean clothes better than my mom can by hand. Did you know that the ancient Greeks cleaned their clothes with urine? My mom does.

Answer 2 (rich white private school student who hired GNR's brother):
My mama wish she could have technology but we can’t get none because she got to feed my brothers and sisters and me and technology cost money so she tell me, look boy, you go and get yoself some technology and then we can stop stealing electricity and cable television and all that. My mama says if I go to college I can get good money and technology and she no have to cry because we got no food or nothing. If we had technology my baby sister wouldn’t cry because I’d be a doctor and feed her and make money and buy her technology.

Answer 3 (other poor student):
I iz ill iturutt.

THE END.

Postscript: Yes, that is a real picture from a real high school yearbook.  

What now, Freud?

Yes, readers, I am aware that I owe you a post on a reader-submitted topic.  Your time will come.  So SIMMER THE FUCK DOWN.

Presented below without any edits, except for the sake of length, is my recollection of last night's dream.  Enjoy.  

...........................................

The story begins in a mountain-nestled European-esque town that apparently lies somewhere in the Tri-State Area. Our main character, a young man in the early throes of puberty, begins our dream in the cellar of a large castle-like mansion, at the bottom of a very long staircase leading directly to the kitchen. Spectre-like, his housekeeper, a buxom woman in her late 20s or early 30s, appears at the top of the stairs. She glances down the length of the flight of stairs, spies her charge at the very bottom, and turns away to dust the kitchen floor with her wicker broom. The boy stares up at the void she has left, in that moment feeling years’ worth of neglect; his stomach sunk beneath the cellar, and he vowed revenge.

Years later, the young man put his plan into action, wooing and eventually marrying his former housekeeper, now noticeably older, but also slimmer and more beautiful. In the dream, I am both an actual character (soon to come) and omniscient – I know that the now-married former child of privilege plans to spectacularly murder the housekeeper, burying her alive in a grave he has designed to hold both their bodies. He has decided that he is willing to die himself to extract revenge for the perceived slights of his childhood, when the housekeeper completely neglected him while heaping affection upon his siblings.

Somehow, word has spread throughout town that the man, driving around with his bride in a 30s-era convertible with a low, upward sloping beltline, plans to murder her, as well as anyone who stands in his path.

This is where Nick and Tyler, two dear friends, and the only recognizable characters in the dream come in. Their picture appears beside this post, their faces concealed: (1) for the sake of anonymity and (2) because they look better that way.

At around this point, I find myself wandering the streets of a town that is an amalgamation of my own hometown in Westchester County and the rustic countryside Euro town from which our main character hails. It is December 23, but only certain parts of the town have been kissed by Winter. The rest, the countryside, is still entrapped by the throes of the fall.

For some reason, I know that you two are eating dinner at a totally deserted Italian place just south of Main Street at the top of the long, steeply raked hill that leads to the Hudson River. Bundled in winter wear, I walk to meet you there, inquiring what your plans are for the next few days. Tyler tells me they are planning to celebrate Nick’s birthday two days later – when I point out that this is also Christmas, you are both puzzled, as though neither of you had ever realized that Nick shared the Lord’s birthday. In any event, in the dream, we all live in roughly the same part of town, and after you finish dinner, we agree to walk in that direction together.

Somehow, inexplicably, we find ourselves walking with a small group of people I don’t recognize. As we stroll South down the totally empty, snow-covered expanse of Broadway, we hear the distant ululations of what turns out to be the convertible carrying the aforementioned newlyweds. We all instinctively know that the driver is embarking on some sort of murderous rampage, and huddle under the canopy of an abandoned gas station to discuss what to do. Inexplicably, we settle on luring the killer to the cul-de-sac where my parents’ house is, where we will descend upon him with the force of a thousands suns. Or homos, or whatever.

While walking, I decide that a better course of action would be to call the Judge for whom I clerked and seek the assistance of the federal marshals (in the dream, the police are not an option). After a number of attempts at finding the Judge, we discover that she has recently purchased a house in my neighborhood, and she is more than happy to spare some marshals to stave off a murderous rampage.

Ultimately, there is no standoff. The parting images the dream etched into my head are of the convertible flying off a cliff and of the grave site marked by a tombstone indicating that the man and his wife are buried there (their names are not revealed). A close-up of the freshly shoveled dirt shows the woman’s hands barely protruding from the surface. They are motionless for a moment, then start rapidly twitching.

Fade to black.

Things I've learned living alone the past five months

If I buy the variety pack of oatmeal, I will eat all of the Maple and Brown Sugar first. I will then buy another variety pack without eating the Apples and Cinnamon or the Cinnamon and Spice. I should not buy the variety pack.

Remember the needy. They will clean your apartments for peanuts. The very same peanuts they found between your couch cushions.

If you very explicitly tell a random that he is welcome to blow you but that you will not reciprocate, have some self-respect and hold up your end of the bargain.

Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids. In fact, it’s cold as hell.

I can finally apply my liberal attitude towards defecating in the shower without fear of a lawsuit.

A flower garden and a whimsical collection of refrigerator magnets are a perfect substitute for a boyfriend. With an extraordinary amount of therapy, you may begin to believe this.

You can, in fact, microwave your own head. Simply cut out the clear plastic front, stick your head in, and stuff the remaining gap with aluminum foil. Then, press start. This is the only weight loss plan that has ever worked for me.

Making your own iced tea is really really fun! Ohmygod what has become of me?!?!

Nothing says tasteful like keeping a box of tissues, hand lotion, and the latest copy of National Geographic on your bedside table.

If I invite you to “see the painting I just bought for my apartment” or to “check out my killer plasma TV” or give any other excuse to stop by my place, expect your ass to be very very sore the next morning.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Update: We're at seven, kids.  Three more and I blog.

I Feel Like a Bullet in the Gun of Robert Ford

There are very few things in life of which you can be sure:

1. Racism

2. Andy Rooney

3. Gay Ninja Robot

Well, scratch that last one.  Because while racism will always be funny, and Andy Rooney will always be our society's great wit, Gay Ninja Robot, well, you just can't rely on that guy.  Even when a brother hollers at his boy and hooks Him up with some hot link action, GNR can simply no longer be relied upon to post regularly, or even to not split His infinitives.  And though He still merits the capital "H" and still is far smarter than any of you people out there who may read this, He rarely finds it worth the effort to prove as much.  

So, a challenge.  Some of you have doubted that GNR truly is smarter and funnier and handsomer than you.  Well, he is.  To prove it, He asks simply this - post an idea for a post, any idea at all, in the comments.  He will then choose the stupidest one and magically transform it into something Dickensian or Shakespearian or even Stingian (Rhyming "cough" with "Nabokov?"  Genius!).  It will be funny and smart and make you bow to His superior knowledge.

Here's the rub.  He ain't writing nothing until He gets at least ten submissions.  If you care at all, leave a comment with an idea.  If you don't, He'll likely wither away and die.

But He won't die quietly.

On politics.

Already rolling your eyes from the subject line alone?  Good!  Now you're in the perfect mood to read the perfect, most definitive blog post about the 2008 Presidential election.  If you haven't decided for whom to cast your vote after reading this post, you probably went to public school!

 

Before engaging in the time-honored tradition of acting holier than thou and regurgitating your candidate's talking points to your friends until they stop talking to you, stop and ask yourself, "What should I really be looking for in a presidential candidate?  And what happens if a guy is interested in me because he thinks I have a nice ass, but discovers later that I'm wearing Bottoms Up padded underwear?"  We'll get to that second question in due course, but for now, let's stick to the issues; after all, I'm not Barack Obama.

The most important thing to consider before voting is how poor people will benefit if each candidate's policies are enacted.  Then, once we've stopped laughing hysterically and remind ourselves that they're poor because god hates them, we need to think about the children.  The children whose food stamps we're providing because their parents did not understand the concept of a collateralized debt obligation.  The very same children who will emerge from our public schools two decades hence without the rudimentary skills necessary to discern the meaning of this blog post.  And for this, we will not pity them, no.  We will, however, move to the far end of the subway car after they hop the turnstiles.     

But how should we vote, you ask, nay beg, me?       

This is what I recommend.  Before coming close to pulling any levers (not that kind, you big homo sillies!), take an IQ test.  If you score less than 185, turn on American Idol, start a gossip blog, and spend the rest of your rapidly disappearing young adulthood sipping cosmos and talking about oh, I dunno, shoes or handbags or sperm count.  If you score 185 or above, go to your favorite porn site, get worked up, then break out the measuring tape.  Are you more than 8 inches?  If so, send me an email - dinner's on me.  Literally.  

Also, if you did score above 185 and didn't get that joke, quit copying off the Asian kid.

If you're still in the running (meaning you meet the IQ standards and aren't busy boofing me), you most certainly aren't reading this blog.  So fucking vote for Nader for all I care - the future of democracy depends on it.  

My book report

If "The Nanny" has taught me anything, it's that a little bit of talent and a whole lot of pluck won't get you anywhere unless you're really, really obnoxious.  And an observant Jew.    

Sometimes, I think I should only purchase products advertised during "The Nanny."  In this commercial break alone, I could get Dex Appeal, 100% Gray Coverage, a high-performance sports tampon, and an Edible Arrangement bouquet made entirely of fruit.  I can even add chocolate!  On top of that, did you know there's a new Lifetime movie starring Alyssa Milano?  Wait, it's not preempting any episodes of "The Nanny," is it?  Oh thank god!  

In tonight's episode, Fran is torn between marrying her high school sweetheart, a greasy wino who must be packing something serious downstairs or else why would anyone bother, or staying with the Sheffields, to care for the three kids and continue pursuing Maxwell, her true love.  This all sounds so melancholy, and yet somehow, through TV magic, it's hysterical:

THE NANNY:  Oh, do we have to tell the children?

MAXWELL:  I think they'll notice you're missing . . . 

THE NANNY:  Can't you just tell them I'm taking a bath?

MAXWELL:  Ms. Fine, you'll be gone forever.

THE NANNY:  Tell them I'm putting on my makeup!

Using a laugh track really robs the viewer of the pleasure of hearing a real live audience explode at exchanges like that one!  And to think, Executive Producer Peter Marc Jacobson didn't have a steady gig for almost five years.  Thankfully, the right project finally came along - you can now experience his magic as a Consulting Producer on What I Like About You, which critics call "The Nanny for the 21st Century - Amanda Bynes is the new Fran Drescher!"  Sure, that may be taking it a bit far, but then again, I just made up that quote.  

In conclusion, the next time you're out shopping for the perfect late-night sitcom fix, and absolutely nothing else is on, why not try The Nanny?  

And now, deep thoughts.

The next time

You think

About dating someone

In the gay football league

Stop

For a moment

And think

He may be on your team

Next season

And that will totally 

Ruin your life.

Touch me again, and I'll drown you, you bastard.

Occasionally, well . . . rarely . . . something happens to remind me that I am, robotitude aside, somewhat human.

And that thing is American Idol.

Yeah, I'm kidding.  Now simmer the fuck down, children.

Except for you, little Katie.  You just keep on simmering.  Simmer like no one's watching.  

But yeah, we are watching.  And you like it, too.  

Our scene is set thusly: a blustery evening in the City of Angels, where GNR found Himself after spectacularly losing the first high stakes case of His once-promising legal career.  Mind you, it wasn’t His fault that the judge was unmoved by GNR’s legal stylings, which mostly consisted of beginning nearly every sentence of His brief with “Ergo” and ending with a pointed ad hominem attack on His significantly less virile opponent.  To wit:

Ergo, Your Honor, my opponent in this case is not only incorrect as a matter of law, but he also went to a second-tier law school where he failed to make the law review.  Also, he has sex with goats.

These arguments failed to sway the judge, even though GNR attached exhibits to His brief clearly evidencing the truth of His allegations.

Devastated by His defeat, GNR found Himself at Falcon with Matt, WHO TOTALLY COCKBLOCKED GNR WHY MATT WHY DO YOU HAVE TO BE SO CHARMING AND CUTE AND SHIT, and two bossy bottoms named Jim and Henry or Bob and Tony or . . . oh who the fuck cares – bottoms are barely human.

But even in tales of woe, fraught with misery and sadness and putting your hands on another dude's thighs and having him tell you, "It's NOT gonna happen," but then it happens anyway, a silver lining emerges.  Well, it looked silver sparkling on his stomach in the pale moonlight, at least.  

On a night fueled by exhaustion, red wine, and an undiagnosed case of severe schizophrenia, GNR found Himself in a familiar position: He was the handsomest stud in the joint, and not just any ass, or only one ass, would be good enough. So he sat, waiting, pondering the question that has tortured America for decades:

How the fuck does Robin Williams ever get cast in anything?  If there’s any justice in the world, he should be playing a harmonica in Washington Square park, jiggling a hat half-filled with change, and giving emo kids crack if they let him blow them.  The moment that happens, I will capitalize the first letter in god.  But not until then, Jesus.  Not until then.

And this is what happens when you set out to blog about your one-night stand (that's ALL you get, R Dubs) with Robin Williams, but don't know how to express the sheer horror of it.  Let this be a lesson to all of you.  

Thanks, N.O.-Xplode!

On a Super Totally Diesel friend's advice, Gay Ninja Robot took N.O.-Xplode before working out two days ago. He'd had a light afternoon, and figured He'd hop out of the office for a bit and blow off a bit of steam by getting huge(r). He took two scoops on an empty stomach (grape flavor, mixed with plenty of water), waited half an hour, then hit the gym. He noticed His nose was kind of runny, but otherwise felt fine.

[Ed.: All you English majors out there - this is called foreshadowing. Sadly, for all you GNR haters out there, this does not foreshadow death.]

The first set of preacher curls - WOW. It was so easy, GNR added ten pounds to the bar, which was already stacked with more weight than he had done in his previous workout. He then banged out another twelve reps, marveling every time he curled how insanely easy this all felt. No muscle fatigue! Explosive bicep action! No unsightly stains!

Then . . .

GNR stood up. And nearly fell back down, the victim of a penetrating, pulverizing headache. And also His jaw was stuck. And also He was very dizzy. And also He had mucus running everywhere. And also He was sweating profusely.

GNR did what any red-blooded, Marlboro-smoking American would do - He got some water, and retunred to the bench. Inspired by another Super Totally Diesel friend's demand that He become an ogre in time for football season, GNR forged ahead and did a third set.

When He put the weight down after the twelfth rep, He looked at Himself in the mirror, and for once didn't orgasm at the sight of Himself in the flesh. He was bright red, nose running like the Dickens, sweating like that whore in church who GNR will eye fuck as much as He damn well pleases and don't you even ACT like you don't want that, whore, and He'll give it to you if you want it and He knows you want it so why don't we go to the confessional and get ourselves some happy.

And so forth.

GNR was also shaking somewhat violently, and began to doubt that He had the ability to walk out of the gym under His own power. But eventually, with tremendous concentration and several rounds of brutal masturbation, He made it home.

Thanks N.O.-Xplode!

Epilogue: GNR went back to the gym and killed His workout.

Epilogue 2: GNR is taking N.O.-Xplode again tonight before His scheduled chest workout. Pray for Him.

Epilogue 3: People who write "ya'll" really need to consider ending their own lives.

The Resurrection

Some of you (already, nobody at all) have wondered what it takes to resurrect a mediocre blog, to return it to its days of (100 hits a day!) glory.  The answer, like getting satisfaction from Rafael Palmeiro, isn't easy. 

I have friends with popular blogs.  And I'm smarter and wittier than all of them.

[Ed.: I'm pretty sure that after those last two sentences, you no longer have friends with popular blogs.] 

Also, I'm better hung.  Please don't ask me how I know.  I just KNOW.

[Ed.: Yeah, I'm also pretty sure that everyone now understands you've had sex with them.  Please stop blogging when you've been out drinking.  If you won't do it for me, do it because your lawyers are begging you to.]

But really, what it comes down to is this: none of you thinks I'm actually human.  And you have a point there.  During my brief period of mild blog-fame (which, incidentally, resulted in my receiving more than $50K in swag, thanks to TV's Bravo), I shared so much more of myself with you.  Yes, I mean that literally.  You see, I've moved away from my roots this past couple of years, moved away from my strategy of building a readership by sleeping with anyone willing to link to me.  But now, several STDs later, I've come to realize: you only ever bothered to read this blog because I was willing to sleep with you.

With that in mind, I'm announcing a new promotion: if you link to me and get me at least 100 hits, I will have sex with you.  

I will also try not to cry afterwards.  Because making love is so beautiful, it hurts.  

With that, it's time to clean the blood out from my anus.

Goodnight everybody!!!

Nail THIS.

As time marched on, Jesus Christ found he had stopped feeling the joy he once had in spreading God’s word to the common folk, uplifting them with tales of angels hatching in the bellies of whales and whatnot.

That’s in Ephesians somewhere – look it up if you don’t believe me, assholes.

When Jesus began his great quest to save humanity from the boredom of not having ever more fantastical stories about its origins to entertain itself while building pyramids and castrating goats or whatever the fuck Nazarethians did, he did so with a singular goal – to bring pain upon himself.  For though Jesus was indeed the most compassionate Jew who ever did live, damn was that brother a masochist.  He relished nothing more than a public stoning, followed by a vigorous bout of anal with Judas, who would later betray him by performing slow, succulent cunnilingus on the Virgin Mary, who would insist to anyone who would listen that cunnilingus didn’t count, so yes, she was damn well keeping her name.

Some historians would argue that Jesus’ most impressive feat was not pitting half the world against the other half, but rather disguising his cries of ecstasy as pained ululations, as he twisted and turned his body so that each stone would strike him in a different place – for though the world continues to debate if Jesus was white or black, if it were up to him, he would have been purple all over.

But at some point, the relentless pounding of the stones and Judas’ monster schlong ceased to fulfill Jesus’ earthly desires.  He needed more, and yes, he realized, he was willing to pay the ultimate price.  He would sacrifice his body, his very existence, to immortalize the cause of masochism.  But how, he wondered.  How?

The idea came to him in a dream.  In an irony so delicious he could almost feel the pain beginning to coarse through his body, he would be crucified on a cross of his own making, an orgasmic crown of thorns perched atop his head.

To make his dream a reality, Jesus would need to plant the seed among the Jews or the Muslims or the Buddhists or whoever was out to get him.  His greatest coup came during a routine stoning, where he exclaimed his prepared line with a perfectly impromptu feel: “Your stones will never quiet me!  Until the day you crucify me, I will continue to preach god’s word!” The crowd immediately begin murmuring, suggesting they would do exactly that.  Jesus used every ounce of his god-given restraint to prevent himself from becoming aroused.

Once the die was cast, and the civilized people of Mesopotamia or Babylon or Atlantis or wherever ordered Jesus’ crucifixion, Jesus could hardly wait to get publicly nailed.  Unbeknownst to his condemners, Jesus gave himself an extra-special present on the big day, placing the stem of the thorniest rose he could find squarely between his butt cheeks.  His slow, somber walk to death was a religious experience in more ways than one, as Jesus prayed to god that the thorns wouldn’t lead to unsightly bloodstains on his freshly laundered loincloth. 

As the nails were hammered deeper, deeper through his flesh and the crown of thorns was secured to his head, Jesus tilted his head to one side, moaning with an unbridled ecstasy amplified by his inability to touch himself.   He knew death was imminent, but he knew, too, that he would die happy.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Epilogue

To this day, Christians throughout the word honor the lone request Jesus made in his will, engraving the cross on which he was buried with INRI.  Though it’s commonly understood that the phrase stands for Iesus Nazarenus Rex Iudaeorum, Jesus took its true meaning to his grave:

I Need Rectal Incisions.

I think . . .

. . . that when the history books are written, Gay Ninja Robot's bold prediction of the exact outcome of the Super Bowl will be considered the most enduring moment of the Giants' unlikely victory. 

God bless you all.  

Prediction

The Giants will win.  

Let's say . . . 

17-14?

Expect a low-scoring affair.  

Alas, poor Huckabee, we hardly knew ye

The pimp surveyed his wares, eyeing each of his boys with the same delicate indelicacy with which a farmer selects a pig for slaughter. He knew what his client wanted, knew what this client wanted, and he knew what he wanted too.

"Aaron, turn around."

Aaron, four years in the business but only nineteen, revolved slowly and, though fully naked, without a hint of sensuality. He knew, after all, that this trick, like all the others, was a job like any other; it might be fun, it might be horrible, but either way, he got paid.

Aaron completed his pirouette, keeping his head down while raising his eyes. The pimp nodded, then jerked his head towards his office. Aaron followed him in.

.....................................................

"Turn the lights off," Aaron ordered, his trick following close behind as they entered the Ft. Smith Hampton Inn, Room 2G. Aaron was naked from the waist up, excepting the faux iron crucifix that dangled from his neck. As he sat on the bed and leaned over to untie his shoes, Governor Huckabee waddled over and ran his fat little fingers through Aaron's flocculent mane.

"Let's just get down to business, whatdoya say, boy?" the Governor moaned, one hand knuckle deep in Aaron's hair, the other rubbing the front of his own pleated pedal pushers. Aaron ignored him, neatly folding his socks and tucking them into his shoes. He anticipated his impending sin obdurately, tugging on his belt fecklessly, impervious to Huckabee's mounting tide of muffled moans.

"Please," Aaron breathed, fishing a condom out of his pocket without looking up, "wear this. Otherwise there's no business to get down to."

Huckabee snatched the rubber away, and began ripping it open. He'd been down this road before, and hell if this kid thought he was making bank so the Governor could spread God's love into a jimmy hat. No, they were going to play a little game of Vatican roulette. The Governor knew all his boys were clean; he wasn't picking up these kids in restrooms for Chrissakes.

.....................................................

An hour later, as Huckabee gingerly lifted himself up and off Aaron's comely hindquarters, he removed the johnny, its head cut off by the pocketknife he carried for just such occasions, and ordered, "turn over."

Aaron did so, finding the Governor sweatily, and proudly, holding aloft the evidence of his duplicity. Aaron gasped, then breathed deep, realizing in that one long moment why his pimp chose him.

"Turn on the lights," Aaron whispered. As the Governor ambled over to the switch, Aaron rolled back onto his stomach, spreading his legs wide.

When the Governor, still smiling, turned back around, his legs buckled. He fell to the floor, eyes on the ceiling, hands clasped in prayer. He slowly lowered his eyes, and saw the telltale papular nodule, bright purple on Aaron's alabaster ass. He wasn't the education Governor, but he knew Kaposi’s sarcoma when its spider eyes stared at him.

Aaron rolled back over, looking at the Governor with an intentness brought on by four years of debilitating treatment. "God bless you," he said.

.....................................................

Ohmylord. Thanks boof. Somehow GNR confused "john" with "pimp," rendering this otherwise brilliant post perplexing. Do Him a favor. Read it again. And think about it. It really is far more clever than your tiny little peabrain can fathom.

Faggot

He is fifteen,
Waifish,
Huffs paint,
Barely reads.

He hates Jews,
Blacks,
Homeless people,
His parents.

He has a trust fund,
A Bimmer,
A Rolex,
A giant cock.

He wears Abercrombie,
Fucks the polo team,
His English teacher,
His English teacher's son.

But with all this,
He is
Only
A faggot.

Kenny Kupcake, the Analingus Robot

Are you like me? Do you sometimes wish you had a hot young stud ready to go to town on your downtown funtime zone at a moment's notice? No, not that downtown funtime zone. Turn around. That one. Well, do I have news for you!

For a limited time only, we're offering Kenny Kupcake, the Analingus Robot for the introductory price of $19.99!!! No more going through the hassle of posting an ad on craigslist, making up a fake name, heading over to some dude's place, letting him have his way with you, offering him a roofied glass of water, robbing him of all his earthly possessions, blowing the proceeds on china white, and spending the next several days shivering in an alley, praying to a rusted metal dumpster that to your eyes resembles a statue of Buddha. Instead, just throw in a couple of triple-As, lie flat on your stomach, insert Kenny Kupcake, the Analingus Robot in your rectum, and have yourself a salad-tossing good time!

If you order today, we'll throw in Kenny Kupcake, the Analingus Robot's best friend, Mindy the Muffdiving Machine. That way, the next time you bring a nice girl home to grandma so she doesn't cut you out of the will, you can still get your happies at night.

WARNING: DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, CONFUSE KENNY KUPCAKE, THE ANALINGUS ROBOT, WITH MINDY THE MUFFDIVING MACHINE. BY ISSUING THIS WARNING WITHOUT ANY EXPLANATION OF THE CONSEQUENCES, I REALIZE I AM TEMPTING YOU TO DO JUST THAT. SO GO AHEAD. IGNORE ME AND MY CAPITAL LETTERS. YOU CAN FUCK YOURSELF FOR ALL I CARE. WAIT, YOU'RE ORDERING KENNY KUPCAKE, THE ANALINGUS ROBOT, SO THAT IDEA PROBABLY APPEALS TO YOU. FUCK IT. YOU KNOW WHAT? I'M GONNA SEND YOU KENNY KUPCAKE, THE ANALINGUS ROBOT, AND MINDY THE MUFFDIVING MACHINE, BUT I'M GONNA MISLABEL THEM SO YOU THINK EACH IS THE OTHER. OR MAYBE I WON'T. YOU'LL NEVER KNOW, ASSHOLE.

A Silly Willy Sunday

Ya know, when you have a blog that nobody reads, except for a very small number of people, most of whom you know personally, you can use it the way you would use email to those very individuals, except somehow it's different because you're not just talking to that person but to everyone, but really, it's the same.

Ya know?

Ya don't, huh? Well, soldier on I shall anyway.

After, oh, sixteen months of fairly strenuous efforts to reconnect with Silly Willy, once the apple of my eye and fire of my loins, I found myself strolling behind him after emerging from the 'Bucks post-workout. Funny enough, I recognized him by his butt, which is as insanely cute as ever. I decided, though, that I wouldn't say hi - he was with someone, and hell, if the guy's going to go to the lengths he's gone to to avoid me, the least I could do was not talk to him when he happened to be eight feet away.

Wait, that makes no sense.

Anywhos, SW turned around, saw me, and extended his hand in friendship, only to have it brutally slapped aside in pursuit of a hug. His companion's response to my name, a mildly drawn out "Ohhhhh," revealed it had popped up in conversation once or twice.

We walked the length of an avenue, exchanged a hug, and that was it. It was cold, and awkward, and really really nice. SW knows how much I regret what happened between us, and hopefully is willing to let me buy him dinner really soon so we can patch things up a bit.

Can ya handle that, Willy? It'd make me an awfully happy camper.

A Tale of Four Apartments: Part I

Some of you know me, some of you think you know me, but all of you share one think in common:


You don' know me.


Pshaw.


Since I've long since given up on the idea of this blog as a forum for anything other than semi-monthly drunk rantings, and since I haven't had a drink in two months, I thought I'd try something new and actually share something with you: me.


And that is the greatest Christmas gift of all.


So sit back, relax, pour yourself a cup of tea, beat your wife severely, and enjoy the tale of my time in Manhattan, related through my four living situations. I know some of this has already been told in the New York Times, as everyone with a pulse knows, but the Times' word limit stripped my story of its most valuable asset: its prolixity. [Ed.: GNR will now pause so you can all look up the definition of prolixity. Of course, I could easily have provided it here in italics, but if I already knew the definition of it, I'd be the blogger, not Him. Him who has not one, but TWO Ivy League degrees. Suck on that. Also, please call him for a date. He's very lonely.]


GNR's Manhattan adventure began inauspiciously in a two-bedroom down the block from Grant's tomb. Where, if you didn't already know, Ulysses S Grant, the best human being of all time, and his lovely wife Julia, a two-bit whore, are buried. Some people like to make a big joke out of the Grants, but damn if He'll have anyone question my patriotism. Or His prowess in the sack.


By this point, incidentally, GNR could claim no prowess at all, and even worse, only one Ivy League degree. At three years' end, His degrees would double, and his prowess would increase . . . well, I'm not sure there's a word for that sort of magnitude. Let's put it this way, though. Have you ever heard the expression, "The early bird catches the worm?" Well, if GNR were a bird, and youknowwhats were worms, well, GNR was the earliest worm-hungriest bird you'd ever have the pleasure of worming you. Or catching your worm. Or, really, doing just about anything with your worm.

Thus GNR built up his street cred on Harlem's edge, occasionally even venturing across 125th Street's foreboding border to brave the produce department at Fairway. His roommate, a Middle English graduate student who, yes, occasionally spoke Middle English, fancied himself a beer connoisseur, while everyone else who met him fancied him a boozehound. He also fancied himself oblivious; famously, two weeks after GNR sat him down for His well-practiced coming out shtick, GNR mentioned that he was going to have His boyfriend spend the night. Dumbstruck, our friend with a penchant for mixing arcane languages with hoppy brews, replied, "Are you gay?" And so His roommate revealed, despite what one might think, that even Middle English graduate students can be oblivious.

A promising alcoholic two years later, GNR headed downtown, where four new roommates, and, yes, fame awaited Him. Our Hero's time in Harlem, though generally fairly quiet on the revolving-door-bedroom front, toughened Him up and prepared Him for what was to come - years and years of woe-is-Him-have-fantastic-sex-then-cry-Himself-to-sleep gayness. Stay tuned for Part II, kiddies . . .