Tristan and I went out for dinner for last night and were served what had to be the most phallic garlic bread in the history of ever:

That’s all I got.

Sorry.

Tune in tomorrow as I kick off my first annual celebration of Gay History Month with two — count ‘em! TWO! — posts.

First of all, let me state for the record I am a Splenda-holic.

For reals.

No Sweet-n-Low or Equal for this fruit. Oh no. And real sugar? A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips, bitches. It’s Splenda or nothing.

I would even go as far as to say that is not hyperbolic in the least to refer to me as a fucking Splenda junkie. I carry a Ziploc bag of the shit in my coat at all times (and by Ziploc bag I mean a minimum of 50 packets at any given time). I also keep a box in my car as well as “shop” the local Panera, Barnes and Noble, Red Lobster, and Ruby Tuesdays whenever I grace those establishments.

I.

Love.

The.

Splenda.

Which meant that a recent advertisement promising the upcoming arrival of  flavored Splenda packets had me dabbing the drool from the corners of my mouth and making moist in my boxers. Flavored Splenda. Short of being the meat in a John Stamos/The Fella sammich, could there be anything better?

I think not.

So imagine my genuine delight and surprise when this past weekend when The Fella and I were out for a bite to eat at the Olive Garden and I spotted this on our table:

A jar chock full o’ the sweetners!

And of course the second I saw the distinctive yellow tubes of Splenda, I just knew that the other tubes had to be the much anticipated flavored Splenda!

I immediately extracted one of the tubes with a blue end from the bowl and examined it.  My brow furrowed as I read “Tosca de Italy” or some such foreign gobbledy-gook.

Not sure what “Tosca” was Italian for, I grabbed one of the tubes with a pink end. It too was labelled “Tosca de Italy.”

What the fuck?

Undeterred in my enthusiasm, I grabbed a tube with a white end. Again with the Italian shit. Now I was seriously confused. There was only one course of action.

Reasoning that the tube with the pink end would most likely be strawberry or cherry flavored, I tore open the end, sprinkled some on my spoon, and tasted it. My mouth immediately curled up in a pucker. Strawberry or cherry, my ass — that shit tasted like fucking Comet cleanser.

I tossed the tube down and went for one with the blue end. Whenever CoffeeMate is in a blue bottle, it is vanilla so I knew this one was going to be wicked good. Once more I tore open the end, sprinkled a VERY liberal dose on my spoon (vanilla is my favorite flavor), and tasted it. So NOT vanilla…unless it was vanilla flavored flea powder.

It was at this point that The Fella leaned in, head tilted to one side, and asked “Just what in the hell are you doing?”

“Tasting these new Splenda flavors,” I replied between sips of water.

“And what flavors are they, Dirk?” he asked, fighting back a huge grin.

“Well, I thought the pink would be strawberry or cherry and the blue would be vanilla and the white I’m not sure about –”

He closed his eyes and laid his head on the table, laughing quietly.

“What?” I asked.

“The colors aren’t representative of flavors, you goof! Pink is for Sweet-n-Low, blue is for Equal, and white is for regular sugar.”

“Oh.” That did make sense once he pointed it out.

“You really are adorable in a ‘I lick windows’ sort of way sometimes,” he smiled, shaking his head and looking around  in the hopes no one had seen his special needs boyfriend eating sugar substitutes straight from the bowl.

Just the facts, ma’am:

Dinner was at noon.

As always, I was careful to make sure my food didn’t touch.

Oh look — a lovely bev-Uh-rah-jay to take the edge off when a certain someone began turning up the “I keep waiting for this one here to give me a grandbaby” heat.  I don’t know who she was trying to fool — everyone at that table knows I’m a cocksucker from way back.

Chocolate pie for dessert.  I passed (I don’t like chocolate).

There were 6 dogs in attendance.

But only one came in geisha attire…

…then switched into ballerina gear…

…before making a lovely poo for my camera.  (Thank you, Willow!)

And that was my Turkey Day — how was yours?

What’s on my mind this Monday morning?  I’m glad you asked…

~ Beyonce as Wonder Woman.  Seriously, Warner Brothers — you fire Joss Whedon from the project and then entertain this idea? With that type of forward (i.e., retarded) thinking, may I suggest Stephen Hawking as Steve Trevor and Harvey Fierstein as Queen Hippolyta?  And of course, you’ll want to have Akiva Goldsman write and Joel Schumacher direct to make the trainwreck complete.

~ Stephen Rader brought my attention to the new WATCHMEN trailer. Sweet. Fetal. Jesus. This is going to rock.  And as always, if you haven’t read the graphic novel — what the fuck are you waiting for?

~ I’m sure it’s just me, but what is it about Barack Obama that has everyone spontaneously orgasming every time his name is mentioned?  I just don’t get it.  And might I suggest we let him get his presidential feet wet before we declare him the new Messiah?

~ Wanda Sykes is gay?  Why didn’t anyone send me the memo?

~ How awesome was the TOP CHEF season premiere?  I love, love, LOVE me some Tom Colicchio and Padma Lakshmi.  (And I’m mad crushin’ on contestant Danny.)

~ Since heterosexual marriage is so sacred, how about we pass a law making it illegal to get a divorce?  You know, to keep it sacred and prevent the institution from getting all sullied and such.

~ I hate that in-touch-with-his-inner-teenage-girl Terence and Sarah went home on last night’s AMAZING RACE.  I really wanted to see eyelidless Tina and whipping boy Ken take a powder.

~ Serena van der Woodsen.  Sorry — I just love saying that name.

~ How adorable is Tucker?

~ Limited edition Jello brand Classic Turtle pudding fucking rocks.

Well, that’s about it.  (Yeah, I know — I’m just all kinds of deep and shit.)

So, what’s on your minds today…?

The Fella just called and wants to take me out to some new Indian restaurant that opened down town.  

My response?

“Um, I’ve never had Indian food before…but I’ll give it a try.”

What was I thinking?  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

So now I am turning to you dear readers, asking for your wisdom and guidance in choosing a nice chicken dish that won’t sear the ol’ sphincter on the way back out.

Hurry — dinner’s at 6!

I really have no blogging oomph this morning so let’s just do this with bullet points, ‘kay?

~ THE INCREDIBLE HULK was not the kick ass romp that IRON MAN was. It was the bastard love child of an episode of the old Bill Bixby series and a video game. That said, it was head and shoulders above the Ang Lee outing and Liv Tyler has waaay more acting chops than Jennifer “I act with my eyes” Connelly.

~ Guess who called twice in the span of 17 minutes while I was at the movies? And guess who did not return his calls. Go ahead, guess. Yep, that’s right…

~ I played the lottery on Friday…but have yet to check my tickets. I’m gonna guess I’m the same poor fucking faggot today that I was then. Okay, $3 poorer but still the same fucking faggot…

~ I have now lost 34 lbs since January. Only 25 more to go.

~ I got the apartment. My lease starts July 5th.

~ The fella sent pic/text messages that made me laugh all weekend.

~ I ate like 6 bananas.

Edge of your seat stuff, huh? Now aren’t you glad I didn’t drag that shit out?

Saturday marked the return of the texting marvel, Coffee Guy:

happy thanksgiving! i’m home de-stressing. you have to come see my christmas tree.

Being completely special needs when it comes to men, I left that one there floating in the ether while I tried to come up with something clever and witty to say in regards to seeing his tree. That something never materialized.

Last night, this showed up in my mailbox:

there’s a new greek restaurant on setterfield. hint, hint

Great — greek food. Ugh.

But I like this guy pretty-good-okay-fine so I texted back:

Hey, Coffee Guy — I heard there’s this new Greek restaurant on Setterfield…maybe you’d like to check it out some time.

I awoke this morning to his reply:

a new greek restaurant? cool! but “sometime” is very non-specific

Sick of the thumb typing back and forth, I sent a final message telling him I would be calling this evening to arrange a time and day. (Notice I didn’t say “date” — I have no idea if that would be the proper term.) So it looks as though I will be dining on goat meat and grape leaves or some such shit either this week or next and may I just say that if there’s anything I “love” more than feet, it’s greek food. I’m not sure if I ever posted about it, but Michael took me to a greek restaurant once and there wasn’t one fucking thing on the menu that wasn’t made with lamb or didn’t look like baby shit, so I just ate the bread and Michael was pissed and yelled at me. (And don’t even get me started on that flaming cheese shit — I tried a bite of that and they need to rename it sole of shoe flambe.) But I digress…

You guys worked your magic with the Thai suggestions (i.e., no seared asshole the day after), so I’m calling upon you once more for suggestions on what I might order. Remember, I like chicken, turkey, and…chicken and turkey, and I don’t like things that are not recognizable because they have been beaten into a fucking paste and stuffed into a grape leaf and served in half light to disguise their innate disgustingness.

So hit me with those suggestions, already…

Being a gay man, it should come as no secret that I enjoy putting things in my mouth that promise a creamy white filling.

That’s why when a promise of said filling flooding my Gustatory and olfactory cells resulting in a taste bud orgasm is not fulfilled, I get a tad bit pissy.

Case in point:

Please note the obvious selling point in the second picture: a creamy white milk filling. I saw that and it was over, people. If there’s anything I love more than putting a bear in my mouth, it’s having that bear deposit his secret white load in me. Before I knew what I was doing, I had a box in my hand and was standing in the check-out, dietary guidelines and my goal of reaching my fighting weight by my birthday thrown to the wind.

Racing home, I turned on UGLY BETTY — the wedding episode! — and ripped open the box in a frenzy, eager to lose myself in a sinfully orgasmic melange of camp, cake, and cream filling. As Wilhemenia prepared for her big day, I bit into the first cake, closing my eyes and awaiting the explosion of flavor.

Which didn’t cum come.

I opened my eyes and looked at the cake. What the fuck? There was no delicious cream filling in there. And the cake was kind of dried out — like a nasty ass Twinkie.

I threw the remaining cake in the garbage, tore open another cake and bit inside.

Nothing. Oh hells to the no…

I grabbed the box. There was clearly a white cream filling promised. I rubbed my eyes. It was still there.

I tore open another and broke that sucker in thirds. Nothing. A fourth cake also failed to produce the desired results.

Mother of God — I had been swindled! My own base desires for calorie laden, artery slamming cream filled cakes had allowed me to be taken for a ride and ruined my UGLY BETTY wedding episode experience.

With one cake remaining, I decided to do an autopsy. I carefully removed the tiny creature from his foil pouch and using a butcher knife, split the little bastard from head to toe:

Know what I discovered?

No creamy white filling. Just 2 small pockets of semi-moist cake hidden inside of the Twinkie-esque dried out sponge cake exterior. (And may the jury be instructed that I loathe…L-O-A-T-H-E…Twinkies.)

I felt so robbed — $1.50 gone…just like that.

You took my money and you took my heart, Lulu Bear.

Shame on you.