Longtime readers may recall a certain freaky tooth fetishist and how he seemed to have gotten his woo-ing techniques from a certain cinematic serial killer. Well guess who dropped an IM my way the other night whilst I was checking my long dormant Yahoo! account? That’s right — Donald…

Donald: hi. long time no chat
Dirk: Yeah.
Donald: so i dont mean to make you uncomfortable but i’m going to be in town next week and i was wondering if we were to meet up, would you want to mess around?
Dirk: I’m dating someone.
Donald: it could be you and me or you me and him
Dirk: I don’t think so.
Donald: if you and i didnt have history and chemistry i wouldnt ask but you and i have enjoyed some hotness in various forms and if i had gotten the chance it would have been physical for sure
Dirk: I think you have me confused with someone else.
Donald: so what are your thoughts? no is an ok answer if you two would not be ok with it
Dirk: I am not okay with and I know my boyfriend is not okay with it.
Donald: think about it and let me know. i think about you all the time
Dirk: You should probably get some new thoughts since I have no intention of crawling into bed with anyone but my boyfriend.
Donald: i know i can change your mind when we have dinner.
Dirk: Are my responses coming through on your side? ‘Cause I get the feeling they’re not…
Donald: i still have your number. i’ll call you when i’m in town

Dial away, fuck-knuckle — I changed services and numbers 2 years ago. But just in case that doesn’t get through to you…”I got your dog and she’s hurt real bad! She’s in a lot of pain! I think she broke her leg on the way down!”

According to ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY, “ABC has opted not to order additional episodes of EASTWICK, effectively canceling the freshman dramedy. The show, which has consistently ranked last in its Wednesday-10 pm timeslot, is expected to finish out its current 13-episode run. ABC, meanwhile, has ordered five additional episodes of THE FORGOTTEN.”

THE FORGOTTEN. 

Seriously? Who the fuck watches that piece of shit show?

I am so goddamn mad right now I could fucking spit nails.

And while I am on the subject of ABC, what the hell is with that clusterfuck FLASHFORWARD?

Yeah, I get it, ABC — you’re hoping for another water cooler hit like LOST but there’s only one problem: LOST has talented writers with a vision for their show. FLASHFORWARD…not so much.  Jesus, what the fuck was with that boring ass “Senate Intelligence Committee hearing/lesbian one-night-stand” episode a few weeks ago? That never-ending hour was the one that effectively killed any interest I had in this over-hyped shit fest.

And don’t get me started on V. 

I really wanted to like this, but then they had to go and hire Elizabeth “I never speak in anything but a breathy monotone and blink intermittently to allay any fears that I might’ve died or fallen asleep during filming” Mitchell as the lead. It took me three fucking times to watch the pilot because every time she came on, it was lights out for this faggot. Hand to God, no lie — just ask The Fella who kept poking me every few minutes the third time around. I can’t think of a less charismatic female lead (except for Anna Torv of FRINGE but that’s a whole other post…)

Huh? Whuzzat? Where am I? Just posting that pic put me in a mini-coma.

Oh well, at least I still have GOSSIP GIRL.

If you’ll excuse me now, I’ve called in sick and I’m going to go lay on the futon and watch the remaining EASTWICK episodes in the dvr.

“…Homosex-shuh-ality is not God’s best. I come from that value system of the scripture. I can’t pick and choose….I just try to love them and treat everybody with respect.”

You can’t pick and choose? Um, excuse me, but obviously you can — you choose to focus on persecuting gays but then totally skip over all the other directions given to you in the Bible like stoning adulterers and putting folks to death who dare work on the sabbath. And how respectful is it to treat a certain group people as lesser beings and not worthy of the rights of everyone else? Choose your words a bit more carefully, Joel — the ones you’re spewing now make you sound as stupid as your hair looks. 

And what the fuck is with Barbara and Whoopi not throwing a verbal beat-down on this guy’s ass? And Joy Behar — what’s with the kid gloves with this jerk? Open your mouth and call that “life-coach-slash-minister” out on his shit on behalf of gays everywhere.

Who do you think is watching your sad sorry show anyway, ladies?

As most of you know October is Gay History Month and in an effort to help my community, I decided to enlist the aid of two of the most opinionated women I know –  the smart and sassy Elle the Pirate of Belle et la Brewski and my whack-a-doodle mother Lola — to share their hearts and their wisdom with my people. Thankfully, they both said yes, which meant I’ve only had to do 6 posts a week instead of 7 — bless you , ladies. As I’ve stated before, Elle’s comments are courtesy of the interwebz  while Lola’s responses are tape recorded and then transcribed by yours truly as a soon to be gone pesky cataract has made reading damn near impossible (she holds one hand over her left eye while attempting to read — a condition which further complicates her hunt and peck typing style). Please note that while I love them both dearly, neither one is a licensed professional nor should their advice be taken as either sound or good. In other words, this is purely for entertainment purposes. Don’t follow their advice. Never change lanes at an intersection. Always wait on hour before going into the water after eating. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Now, with those disclaimers out of the way, let’s get rolling…

Dear Elle and Lola,

I’ve been dating a woman for the last couple of months who I had instant chemistry with. Recently, she told me that she wants us to put on costumes and do role playing to spice up our sex life. I think our sex life is fine the way it is plus I would feel stupid dressing up and acting. I think we have something good but I’m worried if I give into this the next thing will be even more weirder. What should I do?

Vanilla Gal

Dear Vanilla,

Let me get this straight.  You will feel stupid dressing up and acting while having wild sex??  Squirrel, please.  Take it from a woman who has at LEAST 5 costumes in her closet and utilizes them ON THE REGULAR…..do….that….shit.  Everyday is Halloween up in this bitch.  Sexy fireman with boobies poppin’ out the top??  Yes, PLEASE! Tinkerbell with no panties??? I’ll take two!!! Pirate whore with her plastic sword?? Pillage THIS booty!!!  There is nothing wrong with role playing.  At all.  And dressing up does not lead to weirder stuff.  I mean, if you wake up one morning and you have a gag ball in your mouth and are surrounded by angry midgets wearing nothing but grass skirts and halos, that’s your own damn fault. Not that that has ever happened to me.  I’m just sayin’.

Now put on that Little Bo Peep outfit and bend over.  Oh yeah….mama likey.

Trick or treat THIS,

Elle

Lola says: …don’t dress up! What’s the matter with these goddamn people who have to spice up their love life? They know what they’re getting into when they sign up for that old shit to begin with and then they want to go and put on fancy clothes and pretend? Jesus Christ. I don’t understand what more spice that silly bitch needs — ain’t licking pussy enough spice? Bleech! I don’t even want to think about that. Next question…

* * * * *

Dear Elle and Lola:

my partner (38) and i (41) have been living together for 3 years. we have a very healthy sex life. One of the most imporant things for me is honesty and faithfully since I was cheated on by pass boyfriends. Last week, I went to check my mail and I discovered that my partner had been talking to men on line and having cyber sex (he left the computer on and left his mail open and i read it). I haven’t said anything yet but I am really hurt by this. i don’t care that it is with a guy he’ll probly never meet. If he is talking to men on line sooner or later he’ll met somebody local and fuck them and i’m mad that he gave the guy his e-mail when he knows that i have his pass word and could go into his mail and read it any time i want.

Dear HaCiC,

Ugh.  Seriously?

Ok….first off….I’m gonna go ahead and say what OTHERS are thinking but WON’T say….It’s “half the time”  not “have the time”.  ”Past”.  Not “Pass”.  ”Probably”.  Not “Probly”.  I won’t even bring up the smaller infractions.  Sorry to be The Grammar Bitch on you, but I’ve had a SHIT ASS DAY full of dirty snatch and FAKE ASS CRYING people that act like they give a shit about someone they ALL talked shit about mere months ago and THIS email put me over the proverbial edge, my friend.  You’re welcome.

And REALLY???  You need someone else to help you with this?  One of TWO things is happening with this whole bullshit scenario….

a) He doesn’t GIVE a flying fuckity fuck that you found out, hence him letting you have his password and whatnot.

2) He thinks you are a complete IDIOT and wouldn’t find out.

I hope ya’ll are using condoms because if not, you are fixin’ to take a sorrowful trip down “Let’s Guess What STD I Have Today” Highway.  He will, if he already hasn’t, CHEAT ON  YOU!!!  SAY IT WITH ME!!!!  HE IS A FUCKING CHEATER!

I say call him on his shit.  Grow some fucking CAJONES (that’s “balls” in espanol….who KNEW I was bilingual!!) and get in his fucking face and CALL HIM ON HIS SHIT!

I don’t think you will do this.  Shit…he KNOWS you won’t do this.  Which is ALL THE MORE REASON TO GET IN HIS FUCKING FACE AND BREAK BAD ON HIM!!!

If you choose not to, I say take a Sharpie marker and draw faces on his balls.  Then, when he asks why ON EARTH YOU WOULD DO SUCH a THING, you can reply, “Well since I’ve been letting SYBIL fuck me in the pooper for the last few years, I just wanted to get to know the multiple fucking shithead personalities, up close and personal, when your balls are smacking against my stomach.  Carry on.”

Idiot fucking porn surfin’ cheatin’ motherfucker.  Him…not you.

Bitter til the very end,

Elle

Lola says: …I don’t understand. Read that to me again. (Dirk reads it to her again) What’s “cyber-sex”? (Dirk explains) You’ve got to be shittin’ me! You mean to tell me some gay guy types “I’m gonna stick my pecker in your asshole” and the other gay guy gets hard over that? Je-SUS. I’ve heard of it all now. The first thing this guy needs to do is throw out that fucking computer. God only knows what nasty shit that other quuer’s gotten all over it. (Laughing) God-damn! Typing shit to make yourself cum. I never heard of such bullshit in my life.

Dirk: It’s mental stimulation…

Lola: It’s mental all right. Is that what you and Tristan do? “I wanna take my pecker and stick in your mouth?” Tell that guy to dump that computer nut and go get a real man. Go to a gay meeting or something. Maybe he can meet that other guy whose husband or boyfriend or whatever he is that was cheating. But if they get together, they need to get rid of the computers. Those goddamn things are nothing but trouble. That typing gay guy is gonna mess around and talk to that guy on “To Catch a Predator” and then he’ll be getting screwed in the ass in prison and he won’t have to type about it no more.

* * * * *

And so as Gay History Month comes to a close, so does this series of posts. A huge, huge, HUGE thank you to the immensely talented and funny as hell Elle for her participation in this as well as to Lola for…well, for being Lola. And a big thank you to everyone who sent in  questions — these ladies would be nothing without your problems.

Have a great weekend everybody!

Last night, The Fella and I got in the Way-Back Machine for an evening at the Lobster where my big gay ears eavesdropped on the neighboring table’s conversation…

Shrivelled Up Old Woman #1:  Is Candice’s husband black?
Shrivelled Up Old Woman #2: I don’t think so — why?
Shrivelled Up Old Woman#1:  She said his name was Jerome.
Shrivelled Up Old Woman #2:  That doesn’t mean anything — I had a cousin named Jerome and he was white.  Besides, Candice’s husband is a farmer.
Shrivelled Up Old Woman #1:  Ever heard of sharecroppers…?

And before anyone asks, yes — Tristan and I enjoyed our evening dining in the 1930’s.

If there’s any thing I hate more than having to go to another branch and doing other people’s work, it’s having to go another branch and doing other people’s work for people who a) have some stupid fucked up name their parents thought was creative and b) do jack shit because they  have very important personal lives and also figure they’re off the hook now that the cavalry is there.

Case in point, Kamily — yes Kamily – a woman of maybe 35 who looked like Henry Rollins’ homely younger sister and did nothing but twirl her tragic blonde poodle perm around her finger while staring at me all goddamn day.

“Whatcha working on over there, Kamily?” I asked after catching her staring at me for the third time in an hour.

“Nothing,” she rasped in her steroid enhanced man voice. “I’ve got cramps.”

Probably from her testicles trying to descend.

“Well what say you try checking these reports for errors?”

“I’m having a hard time focusing today.”

Probably preoccupied with the tracheal shave she had scheduled after work.

“How are you with at least looking busy?”

Kamily stared at me a few moments before tearing up. “I miss my babies,” she brayed in her husky man voice as huge watermelon sized tears fell from her HENRY, PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER eyes.

Her babies?

Oh lord — the “woman” couldn’t work because she missed her cats! Fan-fucking-tastic. Ugly and crazy.

At that moment, almost on cue, one of the most gorgeous men on God’s green earth — and we’re talking John Stamos gorgeous here, people — entered the office pushing a stroller with two adorable rosy cheeked twins .

“Oh, honey,” Kamily brayed as she rushed over and planted a big sloppy kiss on his handsome cheek. “How’d you know I was missing them?”

*record scratch*

Mary, clutch the pearls!

My senses were reeling as I realized that not only did Adonis knew the shambling man-beast but he wasn’t turning heel and running in the other direction, shrieking like a nine-year-old girl. I stopped working, trying to process the visual conundrum before me.

Could the poor bastard be insane?

Perhaps he was legally blind.

Or marginally retarded. You know, like most football players.

If he wasn’t borderline special needs, then the only other explanation was that Ugh-Ugh had been doing her kegels and knew some really good sex tricks. Either that or her vuh-geen was gold-plated and lined in mink.

“I’m going to take a break now that my babies are here,” she-hulk rasped as she and tall, dark, and dumb as a stump toddled off toward the break room for what turned out to be a 35 minute 15 minute break.

“What are your kids names? ” I asked when she finally returned.

“Jerry and Elaine.”

*record scratch – part deux*

“You named your kids after SEINFELD characters?”

“No. Everyone always asks that. They’re named after my husband’s father and my mother,” she huffed…and then proceeded to cry off and on the rest of the day (and the remainder of the week) as she whined about how much she missed her precious spawn.

Which suddenly told me a lot about why none of the work was done and also why I could never marry a woman.

For numerous reasons, I make it a practice never to socialize with co-workers outside of the walls of our 40-hour a week prison (care to enlighten the readers with a sterling example of why, Trout?). If I’ve learned anything over the years it’s that those little forays never lead to anything except Monday morning gossip and yours truly doing the Big Shoe Dance and wanting to take off all his clothes. So it shocked the socks off Carly when I agreed to go bowling last Saturday night.

What the hell, I figured — Tristan was out of town for his niece’s birthday and I didn’t feel like staying cooped up in the apartment the whole weekend. What was the worst that could possibly happen?

Well, I’m not sure if it qualifies as “the worst” but it was definitely uncomfortable when bookish middle aged receptionist Heather showed up with her husband who nearly had a stroke when he saw me.

Or should I saw saw me again.

I had heard the child from the moment I entered the Meglo-Mart Super Grocery — a shrill, repetitive scream that clearly was not coming from any injury or perceived danger but rather from those dark recesses of pure determination to secure the crown of  biggest pre-school cunt ever — and it continued the entire 20 minutes it took me to pick up REAPER – SEASON 2, Pantene Ice Shine shampoo and conditioner, a bag of cat litter, Tristan’s favorite snack crackers (Basil and Parmesan Triscuits, if you must know), and a box of condoms.

As I made my way to the only open check-out (of course!), the shrieking grew in both volume and intensity, until I found myself face to face with the offensive little bitch responsible for the assault on my auditory canals.

Stringy haired, red faced from her theatrics, and clad in a Dora the Explorer tank top and short set, the crib lizard stood in the cart, her tiny hands clenching the edge of the right side in a death grip as she bounced up and down, keeping rhythm with the crazy in her tiny head.

And throughout the fucking miniature banshee’s endless wailing, her mother just threw the contents of the cart (that the tiny terror wasn’t stomping the shit out of that is) on the conveyor belt, a look of total disconnect on her bland face.

Finally I’d had enough.

“Hey!” I said to the shrieking child. “Enough is enough! Shut up that damn screaming.”

The child turned and looked at me, suddenly silent. She tilted her head, surveying me for a moment before she launched into a rousing chorus of “I hate you! You’re stupid!” followed by another series of ear piercing wails.

That’s when the mother finally acknowledged her Satanic spawn.

“Melissa,” she said in the flat, dead tone of someone who’s seen the rest of her life and realizes there’s no point in even trying any more. “Do you have to be such a twat?” 

You know how some people just can’t seem to keep their fucking traps shut? How it’s like they have to constantly be saying something and most of that is stupid, inconsequential shit that makes you want to sucker punch them in the larynx? And as if that isn’t bad enough, you hear them saying the same goddamn annoying thing to someone else that they just said to you 30 seconds earlier? 

Along with my most recent job title I have inherited an underling who meets all of the above criteria. His name is Sterling and he’s chock full of the annoying. Every day when he’s not pointing out to me what a fan-fucking-tastic worker he is, his 53-year-old ass feels compelled to share some nugget of stupidity that sets my teeth on edge.

Here are the current Top 5 – which coupled with a Ned Flanders-esque voice that is like fingernails on the chalkboard of my mind — routinely set my ass to boiling:

1.  “Are you the one that ordered all this snow/rain/heat?”  Yes, I am.  Unfortunately, that plague of locusts to go all feral on your ass is still temporarily out of stock.

2.  “Smile, young man — it makes people wonder what you’re up to.”  So does shutting up and working quietly at your station. What say we both do that, leaving everyone fucking puzzled to beat the band, huh?

3.  “Did you watch the game yesterday?”  No, you stupid son-of-a-bitch — I’m a fucking faggot. The only thing I watched yesterday was a REAL HOUSEWIVES OF NEW YORK marathon in between scrapbooking and giving my boyfriend head.

4.  “Boy, she’s got a nice pair, huh?”  Nice pair of what? I know you ain’t talking about those sorry fucking Payless clod hoppers she’s shuffling around in or those tired ass Sally Jesse Raphael frames she’s been sporting since 1992…

5.  “Do you want to hear something funny?”  Always.  But unless you’re about to tell me you have 12 minutes to live, I doubt anything passing your perpetually chapped lips will generate even a chuckle, you smarmy fat bag of shit.