Things I Wish Kelly Ripa Hadn't Taught Me

If you weren't home during the day, you missed this fun tongue-twister.

(For you novices, tongue twisters only twist when you say them aloud.)

1. One smart man, he felt smart.

2. Two smart men, they felt smart.

3. Three smart men, they felt smart.

(Repeat until somebody smells a fart.)

This is what happens when Regis has heart surgery and Kelly Ripa is left to her own devices. On the bright side, there was no report on Kathy Lee's children.

Species Near Extinction

Deaf Lesbians Near Extinction

By now you've probably read the headline: "Deaf Lesbian Gets Death Penalty In Chainsaw Murder Of Deaf Lesbian". No guarantees here, but I'm bettin' that's a first. On a lot of counts.


Daphne Wright (left) was convicted of the gruesome murder of Darlene VanderGeisen. Denee Daniels, a cashier at Ace Hardware Store, said that Wright paid cash for a $52.99 electric chainsaw and returned later that same afternoon to buy oil for the blade. (I did not make that up.) Let it not be said that our lesbians don't know their way around a power tool.

I confess to not having contemplated the suddenly shrinking numbers of deaf lesbians in recent years. So as not to be considered discriminatory, neither have I contemplated the numbers of deaf baby seals, deaf bald eagles, or deaf white guys. We had a deaf couple up the street when I was growing up. Nice folks: quiet, had nice kids with whom we played, never talked with their hands full. In fact, the state's School For The Deaf was mere blocks from our home. Many a night, we would sit outside in the fall air and listen to the crickets outchirp the cheering from their football stadium. That's not mean. It just is.

I should go on record as being against Chainsaw Massacres of any type against anyone. I am four-square opposed to cutting people up - unless it is to harvest parts that may prolong my own life and more-or-less has the consent of the person being mutilated. But this story grabbed my attention as having one-upped the "Man Bites Dog" headline. This raises the bar to "Baby Seal Clubs Baby Seal, Gets Club Sentence".

They might have considered a teensy-weensy bit of leniency for her having knocked Imus off the CNN crawl for at least a few minutes. Come to think of it, she probably deserves the needle for having hacked up the wrong hack. Hindsight. Whatcha gonna do?

You're not gonna top this one for a long, long time. If you live to be 100, you are unlikely to ever again see the conviction of a black, deaf lesbian who hacked up her deaf lover's new deaf lesbian girlfriend....and got a lethal injection for her efforts.

This calls for a campaign. "Save The Deaf Lesbians!" (From each other, if nothing else.)

First Amendment, Last Resort

I've long thought that the First Amendment to the U.S. Constitution was the last resort of mean-spirited bigots. But I admit I laughed myself into cramps when I heard Angry White Men defending one John (Don) Imus on the basis of the First Amendment's protection of free speech.

Having spent three years acquiring a law degree, I thought I'd use my soapblog to disabuse people everywhere of their misguided legal notions.


WHAT DOES IT SAY?

Amendment I
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH NAPPY-HEADED HO'S?

In short, nothing. The 1st Amendment prevents the government from doing certain things, not CBS, NBC, ABC, and the like. The former I-Man's speech was not abridged in any way. No one stopped him from calling people nasty names. His speech even made it on the airwaves. No one threw him in jail or even brought a civil suit against him for his speech. His speech was freer than a gas station toilet.

What these yahoos are yammering about are the consequences of this nitwit's speech. And nobody promised you consequence-free actions. The constitution is silent on that count. Nowhere in the constitution does it require any newspaper, radio station, or TV program to carry your speech. You may speechify until you are blue in the face, but Ford, GM and Sprint aren't required to foot the bill for it. So the double-firing (an accomplishment by any standard) breaches no tenet of the Constitution or its several amendments. The sponsors' prior pullout from the program has nothing to do with free speech.

"Yes, but TV and radio time doesn't come cheap," you say. True enough. Those corporate behemoths who have consolidated their collective clutch on our remaining print and over-the-air outlets (right under our noses, in the name of Free Markets) now have the power to set the price, the content, and the consequences of non-compliance. So while you're free to say whatever your blackened heart desires (absent crying "Fire!" in a crowded theatre when there is no such fire), you are not entitled to have it publicized for free.

This is why we have a small number of odd public access channels across the continent. White-haired men spewing End Of The World blasphemy, little old ladies extolling the virtues of white supremacy, and wannabe rappers extolling the glories of their ride, libido and bitches fill the time for free out of the goodness of somebody's heart. But CNN isn't going to repeat it for them on the crawl 24/7 while Anderson Cooper looks remarkably good for having spent a week in Darfur.

No, free speech is not abridged when an Imus calls some butch basketball players "nappy-headed ho's" and ends up on the bread line. The constitution is intact, despite the consequences that follow one's speech. (Every 4th grade kid who ever called the fat girl "fat" understands that while you're free to say it, you're likely to get your ass kicked by a fat girl in the process.) That's just how the world works - in this part of the world.

Hiding behind the First Amendment will serve you well in spewing what you want to spew.

But you'd better watch out for the fat girl. She usually packs a helluva punch. And there's no amendment I can find that will hide you from her.

Imus We Hardly Knew Ye

How you can tell when you haven't apologized enough:

"CBS axes Imus over race slur
CBS is canceling Don Imus' radio show a week after he insulted Rutgers women's basketball team with a racial and gender slur. Earlier today, Imus said he had "apologized enough" and the only people he wanted to talk to now were the Rutgers players. The CBS move comes a day after NBC dumped Imus." - Reported at CNN.com



But what about the things you DON'T know?

1. His name is not Don. It's John. He's been using his middle name. How much you bet his new checks will say John?

2. Not even Howard Stern likes him, contending that Imus copied Stern's format and style (presumably including a steady decline in his physical appearance).

3. The Radio Hall of Fame inducted him in 1989. I wonder what the statute of limitations is for revoking such things.

4. Referred to PBS anchor Gwen Ifill as "a cleaning woman" in the 80's.

5. Called Tucker Carlson "a bowtie-wearing pussy" (a comment with which we find scant reason to disagree).

6. Current NY Governor and former NY Attorney General, Eliot Spitzer, launched a tax inquiry into the ranch John and his wife run for poor, sick, nappy-headed kids so's they don't turn out to be ho's.

7. John Imus is one of the few persons issued a permit to carry a concealed weapon in the city of New York. It would appear his tongue is not his best weapon, after all.

8. Got sober in 1988 from cocaine and booze. This goes a long way toward proving that neither is to blame for its users' behavior.

9. Fired in 1977 from WNBC for his cocaine and vodka issues. Stay tuned for off-the-record and off-the-wagon revelations.

10. Despite all, named one of the Top 25 Radio Talk Show Hosts Of All Time by Talkers Magazine.

We're guessing he won't make the list this year.

One wonders: Just how far behind could Bill O'Reilly be?

Ho

This woman is a ho:

Only if you get the New York Post would you know that this is Crystal Gail Mangum the (former)(false)(stripping)(previously arrested)(mother of three) accuser of three nice (pretty) Duke LaCrosse players in a rape case that will likely result in the disbarment of the D.A. who prosecuted the boys.

Former Country Icon For Three Seconds Crystal Gayle issued a press release distinguishing herself from the accuser and pointing out that she was working at IHOP while her agent tried to get her a booking at the Tiki Room of the Holiday Inn in Shreveport. Kraft Foods, makers of Crystal Light, denied that they had offered this woman ho a spokesperson job. Crystal meth users were evenly split on whether they would hire her to get nekkid and dance ho.

To think...If Don Imus had only held off a couple of weeks, he'd still have Sprint as an advertiser, MSNBC as a broadcaster, and a verifiable nappy-headed ho at whom he could take a haymaker of a swing without suffering through any conversations with the Right Reverend Al Sharpton.

"Coincidentally", the young woman gave birth quite nearly 9 months after the (falsely) alleged rape at the Duke LaCrosse party. It wasn't even the first time, we now know, that she had cried wolf rape, having alleged a gang rape some years earlier and failing to pursue the case after sullying the names of the accused.

In the spirit of fairness, since we've been treated to the photos and personal bios of the entire Duke LaCrosse team, we can now view the victim young lady lyin' ho who cancelled a LaCrosse season.

Imagine the dozens of people who were left wondering "Wha' Happened" when the LaCrosse schedule was nixed in the blink of a (false) eyelash. Confession: I don't give a shit about LaCrosse. I was hoping maybe there would be pictures of LaCrosse penis as part of the evidence a la Michael Jackson. I understand LaCrosse is played outdoors with butterfly nets or baseball bats or hockey sticks or something. Fabulous sport. You should try it.

Mostly, I express my support and sympathy for the falsely accused and now summarily exonerated boys in hopes that when they become doctors, lawyers, architects and the like, they will remember that a nice middle-aged man with a healthy pension once said nice things about them and would like to see them naked.

Hey...that's more honest than SHE was. And don't tell me you weren't thinking something similar. YOU just didn't blog it.

They're Everywhere!

This man is an asshole:


If you asked yourself, like I did, "Why is this guy famous?", it's because he's on T.V. in not one but TWO programs you've never seen. Both of the shows are on MTV, which means nobody over the age of 23 even cares they exist.

The boy (he's 20...can you imagine what that hairline's gonna do at 30?) was arrested for the third time since September. The first time, he punched a city worker and a tow-truck driver. (Bad idea. They carry heavy weaponry: tire irons, crow bars, wrenches, chains, etc.) In May, he'll begin serving 60 days in jail for that little faux pas. He also has to attend AA meetings, which I think is grossly unfair to those who are serious about giving up the hooch. He also received a one-day, all-access pass to the Museum of Tolerance on account of he used racial slurs. Let it not go unsaid: If he used a racial slur on a tow-truck driver and lived to tell about it, either he has more than one guardian angel or that tow truck driver should apply for a job at Rutgers.

In March, he was arrested in Greenville, NC for underage drinking and resisting a police officer. (Let it be noted that there is likely not much else to do in Greenville. ) I understand the former. We all had a wee nip before the law approved. But I have never once resisted the PO-lice. Not even the ugly ones.

Now, on Easter of all days, the drunken slob punched a Seattle Marriott security guard in the mouth! (Disclaimer: We once worked for Marriott, and understand the occasional urge to assault various employees. However...) He was removed from the mid-level hotel's premises and returned later - only to be found passed out in a hallway. (No word on whether he was naked.)

As a slow riser, I too, have something of an attitude upon being roused from a peaceful slumber, be it in the Good Chair, the bed or your average hotel floor (no details available at press time). However, when this youngun was awakened from his slumber by the PO-lice, he had the poor judgement to call a white officer a "nigger" and a "faggot". We tried to confirm whether the latter was true but was told that the blogger is "not his type". We contend this does not answer the question. The officer's name is C. DePina. We would appreciate any information (and pictures) that our Seattle readers might provide.

The AA experience will offer him the chance to get his hooch under control. The Museum of Tolerance should keep him from calling people with chains (and people who aren't black) "nigger". But no word at this time of how they plan to rehab his "faggot" slur. I suggest they make he and Isaiah Washington soak their hands in hair color and breathe permanent fumes at the Hair Dressing School of their choice. Or give them a day with their nads tucked into their abdomen and their wangs pulled up between their buttcheeks while they follow Harvey Fierstein around in 5-inch stilettos and fishnets. It is not easy being a queen. And it's about time somebody learned it.

The asshole lives in Laguna Beach, CA. His name has been held until the end of this post so that his deeds would precede his identity. Wouldn't it be great if that were always true? "First, you should know that this is a man who cheated on his wheelchair-bound lover with a hustler, a crack dealer, and a dalmatian. His name is Trevor." It would keep us all from falling into a lot of unfortunate circumstances. Don'tcha think?

His name is Jason Wahler. Almost rhymes with "Asshole", doesn't it?

You Don't Say...

NASSAU, Bahamas (CNN) -- Larry Birkhead is the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby daughter, Dannielynn, a Bahamian judge ruled Tuesday.


The worst kept secret in the history of heterosexuality has been confirmed by the miracle of science. She did the pretty one.

Let the wrangling begin. In a display of magnanimity not seen since Marie Antoinette offered a little Betty Crocker to the masses, the man who had been playing Baby Daddy since the rest of the immediate family O.D.'d, lawyer and All-Around Bad Luck Charm Howard K. Stern said that the child's father could visit "any time he wants".

I should imagine so. The only jaw-whomper in this story is that the infant was not produced in court to be immediately handed off to the appropriate sperm donor. Apparently, baby had a spa appointment that couldn't be re-scheduled in Nassau. You know how hard it is to get into some of these places.

If I were Mr. Birkhead, I'd go get my little girl post-haste. Elsewise, the Jim Jones Phenomenon is likely to hit both Stern and baby before he can put his hands on the bundle of money joy. Bad things happen to Howard's people. Eventually, it stops seeming like a coincidence.

One wonders, without baby and Bahamas, just what Mr. Stern has left by way of media appeal. If the conspiracy theorists are correct and he was, indeed, up to his nipples in the deaths of Anna Nicole and her equally dead son, one would worry about the immediate future of the baby. If I were Howard's housekeeper, I'd stay far away from the Kool-Aid. If he's not involved, he's at least hauling around some bad juju.

Curiously quiet thus far is the woman a grieving, groggy, though fabulously thin Anna Nicole called "Mommie Dearest": Virgie Arthur. I don't know what went down between those two - or what Anna downed to spur such a hateful remark about one's own mother. I know this, though.... If you're caring for a kid that might be worth a healthy chunk of a definitely dead man's fortune, you're probably gonna be nothin' but candy kisses and trips to Disney where that kid is concerned. Few people get a second shot at a Golden Goose kid. Virgie should find her some gingham and start leaving apple pies to cool on her kitchen window sill.

Looks are everything.
Go ask Anna.

BREAKING NEWS: IMUS SUSPENDED

By Blogger Tom
Mayberry, USA

IMUS SUSPENDED 2 WEEKS BY NBC, CBS

After a much-publicized "rap" in which radio host Don Imus referred to the Rutgers University Women's Basketball Team as "nappy headed ho's", both CBS radio and NBC, which simulcasts the program for the 12 people who watch MSNBC, suspended Imus for two weeks.

In a hastily called bi-coastal press conference, CBS elaborated on their decision and how they arrived at the 2 week time frame. "Our longstanding policy has been to suspend radio talent 1.4 days for each person directly affected by on-air insults," a spokeswoman said. Bobby Ray Rodgers, president of the Dothan, AL affiliate, noted that two of the players insulted were white and unlikely to be directly affected by the "nappy-headed" portion of the Imus riff.

"We took that into consideration during our deliberations," injected MSNBC's Vice-President of Demographics. "Our original plan was to suspend Mr. Imus for only 11.2 days, until he mis-used the term 'rap' to refer to his comments." Said the CBS spokesperson, "We felt this only reinforced our belief that Mr. Imus had deep-seated ignorance concerning the African American community."

Outside the CBS announcement in New York, 45 registered ho's demonstrated with chants of "Poor Old Imus - Out Of Luck. Ho's Are Girls You'd Pay To F..." Rutgers' Director of Sports Information replied indignantly that at least three of the current team were women who could "make a buck on their back" if their pro aspirations did not materialize. In Los Angeles, the MSNBC announcement was twice interrupted by bullhorn-toting students from the Hispanic Organization for Body Art and Graphic Sciences (HO BAGS). The students objected to the demonization of tattoos. When interviewed, however, Marcelina Ocala noted that "You got to admit, yo, them girls ain't dainty."

In his time slot, both the radio and television entities will be airing a repeating repertory of Ann Coulter, Michelle Malkin, Laura Ingraham and Tucker Carlson. "With this move, we hope to return to our normal programming priorities concerning Faggots, Foreigners, Traitors, and The Tyranny of Entitlements," a joint statement said.

Imus, in a display of humility and contrition uncharacteristic of his lengthy career, said only that he would "Refrain from demonizing anyone who isn't a homosexual, immigrant, Democrat, or Medicare recipient."

Michael Powell, former chair of the Federal Communications Commission, cheered Coulter's return of "faggot" to the discourse over the public airways. "One would hope that Mr. Imus will follow Ms. Coulter's example and pursue the insidious scourge of homosexual immigrants receiving public aid."

President Bush was at Camp David with Condoleezza Rice who, it was reported, was hosting a Hair Summit with Queen Noor of Jordan and Lifetme Movie Of The Week regular Cheryl Ladd. Through a spokesperson, the president's mother, Former First Lady Barbara Bush noted that, "Because we are Mainers who made our fortune in Texas, we are sorely ashamed of Mr. Imus. We, too, hope that upon his return he will reserve his venom for homosexuals and immigrants, excluding the offspring of any current administration members."

Mary Cheney had no comment but did ask this reporter for an epidural, some eight weeks prior to her due date.

Imus Redux

"I'm not a bad person. I'm a good person, but I said a bad thing. But these young women deserve to know it was not said with malice," he said.

Well....WHEW! That's a relief. Don Imus has joined the long, long queue of those who mysteriously produced bad acts out of a heart that is nothing but sweetness and light. I thought this line sounded familiar, so I did me some diggin' and unearthed a veritable phenomenon of this sort of event.

WHEN BAD THINGS BLURT FROM GOOD PEOPLE

1. "I think I am a good role model" -From the pantiless, crotch-flashing, hard-partying, drunk driver caught on video in a racist rant: Paris Hilton.

2. "And I love him, I think he's a wonderful human being. I think he's a very sincere and deeply religious human being. " - The pope? Billy Graham? No. Newt Gingrich uttered this about the man who said THIS: ""You know, if we had elected this man (segregationist, interracial adulterer, and recovered racist Strom Thurmond) 30 years ago, we wouldn't be in the mess we are today." - Trent Lott. (The FIRST time he said it in 1980.) Lott repeated the quote in 2002 on the occasion of Thurmond's 3,000th birthday: "I want to say this about my state: When Strom Thurmond ran for president, we voted for him. We're proud of it. And if the rest of the country had followed our lead, we wouldn't have had all these problems over all these years."

3. "I feel like I'm a good kid" - Boozy, multi-rehabbed, cocktail hurling partier extraordinaire Lindsay Lohan.

4. "She's a good woman." - Russell Yates, on his ex-wife, Andrea, who drowned all five of the couple's children, ages 7, 5, 3, 2, and 6 months in the bathtub. She currently shares a cell with Dena Schlosser who, in 2004, murdered her 11 month-old daughter by amputating the baby's arms with a kitchen knife. No joke.

I think we might need a better definition of "good" when it comes to people. Hackin' up babies, flashing your cooch, stumbling into martini fights, and ironing your good Klan sheet should not fall under that definition.

There are no bad people anymore. The last bad person was Jeffrey Dahmer, who, I'm sure, had a neighbor or a mama who insited he was "such a good boy". Or maybe Sadaam Hussein, who, despite all, had people marching in the streets to mourn his demise.

That's bad's news for those of us with a Bad Boy Fetish. Since everybody is a Good Person, regardless of what evil they manifest, those of us with a hankerin' for a hunka bad are left to settle for a nice accountant who will tickle our fancy but won't slap it real hard the way we like.

So it's Good News, Bad News. The Good News is there are no Bad People.

The Bad News is the same.

Takes One To Make One

This man is an asshole:

Shiite Cleric Calls for Attacks on U.S. Soldiers
Deaths of Ten More American Troops Announced
By STEVEN R. HURST
AP
BAGHDAD (April 8) - The powerful Shiite cleric Muqtada al-Sadr ordered his militiamen on Sunday to redouble their battle to oust American forces and argued that Iraq 's army and police should join him in defeating "your archenemy." The U.S. military announced the weekend deaths of 10 American soldiers, including six killed on Sunday.

Monsieur al-Sadr may well have been an asshole from birth. He was likely the kid who tromped on your grandma's peonies just as they bloomed or who put gum in your hair or who kicked your ass once a week after school. He, like most assholes, probably has a lengthy list of very plausible explanations for his seemingly maniacal persona.

We also know, however, that not every creep of a kid grows up to be a world-class inciter of violence. Sure, you get your Hitlers, Mussolinis and Reagans who grow up to sanction wholesale slaughter. But developing a reliable profile on these assholes is tough. By the time their tendency toward anusdom is fully matured, it's generally too late to do anything about it - absent lethal force or Alzheimer's.

Nature or nurture? Like we'll ever know. The more the Human Genome Project tells us about the wondrous possibilities in our DNA, the more I think we're going to end up knowing where it all comes from. I also fear we'll not be able to do a thing about it. It reminds me of the tiny snag in a cashmere sweater that once pulled becomes a $450 scar across your chest. Identifying the problem is SUCH a long way from knowing how to fix it.

Of this one thing I am sure: Assholes Multiply. Drop one into a population pool and in no time at all, you will have three. Like Sea Monkeys...only less mysterious and far more annoying. To bring things to a finer point: Nobody had ever heard of this asshole until the last few years. Unremarkably, the key event immediately preceding his emergence on the world stage was an encounter with another world class asshole, thus proving my hypothesis.

So while I cringe at the news reports that I am now the "arch enemy" of an unattractive man I've never met, I will rest assured that I know how this happened. Typically, it takes me 72 hours to earn the label of "arch enemy" (I know this because I was told as much). In this case, we owe this latest asshole to one we know all too well:

It's no longer even a matter of serious debate as to whether this asshole should have our citizens where the other asshole can reach them with your average pistol. The turbaned asshole would surely have erupted into murderous rage owing to his upbringing, a dead-end job, a relationship gone wrong, or an unfortunately undersized penis. He didn't need our help. But hey...as long as we're willing to be on the wrong end of target practice, the guy will delay his own foray into therapy because we're a convenient excuse for his anger.

As to our own asshole, we have the blessed assurance that he'll be a bad memory in about 18 months. Then we get a new asshole, I'm sure. Jaded? Lord, no! Who wouldn't like a new asshole? They wear out, wear thin, can itch, bleed or even prolapse ( I saw that in a video once and swore off anal sex for a full day). A new asshole is a new beginning, a chance to start over, use better lube, make more responsible toilet tissue choices.

So while our current asshole may be multiplying like a hermaphrodite rabbit in the Land of Sand and Burkas, take cheer! Your new asshole is in the mail. We can only hope that the old one hasn't doomed the new one to a legacy of cleaning up after his ass.

But that's just the sort of thing a true asshole would do.

You Know You Thought It

NEWS ITEM:

Dead Rat Found in Senior's Mouth, Suit Claims
By GILLIAN FLACCUS
AP

SANTA ANA, Calif. (April 7) - Staffing was so inadequate at a California senior center that a rat crawled into an Alzheimer's patient's mouth and died there before staff noticed, a lawsuit claims.

It is well-documented that I am a Christian. So I was tempted not to offer commentary on this sad turn of events. Ann Landers says one should not speak ill of the dead. Or maybe that was Tallulah Bankhead. I forget. But in millions of homes around this big, gay world, a similar thought flashed across the marquis of our minds:

"If something crawls in your mouth....and dies....grrrrrllllllll. Someone's dental hygiene was less than stellar."

'Nuff said.

Rest in peas. Both of you.

Nappy Headed WHAT?

As I'm one who has been characterized as "quick to speak", I consider myself uniquely qualified to take a swing at this one. Besides, this is Kansas. Nobody who lives close enough to egg my house could possibly be offended.

It seems that the grumpy, withered old Voice Of The North, one Imus by name, has gotten hisself into deep doo-doo with the following conversation on his radio program, Imus In The Morning:

"That's some rough girls from Rutgers," saith Imus. "Man, they
got tattoos."

"Some hardcore hos," saith the show's producer,
Bernard McGurk.

"That's some nappy headed hos there,
I'm going to tell you that," Imus spake.

Having done time as both a Chicago and San Francisco resident, and having some personal friends who hath educated me on nappy heads and hos, I thought I should have me a peek before I passed judgment. It's one thing to hurl an insult willy-nilly. But if you have a point, well... Maybe you're just pointing out the obvious.

So I have done me some diggin' and produce for you, dear reader, the following photos to compare with the conversation above:

Thus far, I'd say that Imus owed the by-the-balls apology he gave soon after his remarks. No one pretends that these were the also-rans in Trump's pageant. But no nap is readily apparent and I don't see a strong resemblance with the Ho's featured on the delicious HBO Undercover series on prostitution. First, everbody has a full set of teeth - whether they borrowed them or grew them. Leastwise they had the sense to put them in on picture day. 'Nuff said.

However.

I am not a mean person, by nature. I am a giver. A point of light, to quote a withering Bush. I am one part Kum Ba Yah, one part Buddhist, and two parts ACLU sympathizer. Sometimes, it's not a matter of race. Sometimes, ugly is as ugly does. I think Forrest Gump said that.

I am ready to believe that half these girls did not get the Picture Day memo. Or that they had a horrific Beauty Shop Surprise (and we have all been there) on Picture Day. Or that the wind in New Jersey was frightful at the very moment they walked out of the dorms. That happens more than you'd imagine.

I looked closely and, from this collection, can spy no tattoos. Some game photos, though, do reveal a sort of prison motif with the body art. Not on everybody, mind you, but Imus has an undebatable point that some of these young ladies are, indeed, tattooed.

I have no information about the personal life of any of these young women. They may all be ho's of historic proportions. They may also be virgins. I have been to college, however. I lived in the dorm with the women's basketball team at The University of Kansas. I can tell you that Vegas would give good odds that if any one of them is a ho, she's a gay ho. Not that there's anything wrong with that. God knows... So, giving the benefit of the doubt, there may well be grounds for a ho-based apology.

But Imus can only be accused of a half-truth when it comes to nap. Clearly, he was batting .500 when it came to questioning the texture of the team hair. Some of these ladies did not approach Basketball Picture Day like they might approach, say, Church Day. Or First Date Day. Or an average Tuesday.

But mad props for making the National Finals of the Women's NCAA Basketball Tourney. Nobody gave them a scholarship for their catwalk skills. They are hired, if you will, to knock people down and put a ball through a net. On that count, these are remarkably successful young women.

As for Imus's badmouthing on National TV and Radio?

Nap Up. Ho's Down.

It's All In How You Hear It

Remember that game you played in the 2nd Grade: Operator? One kid would make up some ridiculous, innocuous sentence like, "I fold the towels when mom does laundry." Then he would whisper it to the next kid, who would knit his brow and mis-repeat it to the next kid. And so on, and so on, and so on. Until the last kid in the circle blurted out the bungled line to a chorus of 7 year-old giggles: "I told the owls that mom hugged Audrey."


I made the conscious decision not to watch this year's re-airing of The Ten Commandments. The good one. The one with Anne Baxter. (swoon, genuflect, recover) I have them memorized. I know the story. It just occurred to me that Dateline NBC might be more intriguing this time around - assuming they weren't luring inept pedophiles into national exposure. I was right.


It also crossed my mind that maybe the Big Ten didn't come out exactly as He might have uttered them. Things do get lost in translation. You know how the morning after you can barely read the man's name and number he scrawled in the dark on your dashboard as you bump across potholes? Imagine trying to write on stone by the light of one flaming bush. (Note to Lindsay Lohan's lawyers: Stop calling me. I'm not talking about that one.) It's possible that even Mo couldn't read what he wrote and winged it during the big announcement. Isn't it?


For example: Thou shalt not commit adultery. Even by Bible accounts, adultery had been fairly standard practice - along with plural marriage (Mitt, stop touching yourself), concubines and the like. Is it not more likely that the really practical commandment was:

"Thou shalt not admit adultery"?

Lord knows, it's not in the doing that problems arise. It's in the knowing. Look at any Lifetime movie. The only appropriate application of Don't Ask, Don't Tell is in this very context. Why stir the pot when the stew is just fine?

Or the one about not coveting your neighbor's ass. I find it entirely possible that, in the spirit of 40 years' worth of desert wandering and the desire for the perfect tan, the real admonishment was:

"Thou shalt not cover thy neighbor's ass."

No one likes to wake up from a slow bake in the desert only to find that their effort to evade tan lines was in vain because some Nosey Nellie threw a towel over their tochus. This one, I think, may well have been about respecting boundaries. And the importance of a healthy glow. God is no dummy. He gave us the sun so that we would tan. And there's that whole photosynthesis thing.

"Honor thy father and mother" seems to come way out of left field on the list. I find it more likely that the true commandment, garbled by Moses - who was an admitted stutterer - was closer to:

"On thy father and mother's good side."

Now that's good, solid, practical advice. And not just for inheritance purposes. Though that's nothing to sneeze at. As we all know, there is nothing worse than having the Drama To End All Dramas with them what sprung you from their loins. It's the same as the Retail Rule, known by ribbon queens worldwide (for the younger set: this term refers to the now non-existent ribbon inside a cash register): Smile and Nod Until You Get A Smoke Break. You won't regret not getting fired....or disinherited....or crucified monthly for the rest of your natural existence.

So heads up, my fairy friends. This whole religion thing may not be as austere and restrictive(though FABULOUSLY produced) as the movie suggests.

There may have been some static on the line.

The Undead

Well, glory hallelujah. This is the weekend I iron each year. If Jesus can get up out of the grave, I can dig the iron out of storage, put a towel on the cabinet, and reacquaint myself with the can of spray starch I purchased as part of my Going To College kit in 1982. It's also the weekend I wear The Suit. I don't take it to the dry cleaners anymore. I've finally figured out that by this time next year, whatever smells jumped on it will have faded.

I have to skip the Big Family Get Together this year. Too many command performances, too little Tom to go around. So I'll spend Easter relatively alone (meaning without relatives) and rest easy in May knowing there are no rotting, undiscovered though colorful eggs somewhere in my backyard. Besides, I found out last year that they aren't even doing the real Family Easter Egg Hunt anymore. They're doing a Plastic Egg Hunt. It's the Fake Christmas Tree of Easter. And it's a shonda.

Last year, I busted my hump hiding plastic eggs so well that even I couldn't find them again. They were filled. Some had candy, and a LOT of them had money. It was like Easter Gelt. Somewhere, Jesus was having a religious crisis. We never had money in our Easter Eggs. We had egg in our eggs. Back in the olden days, if you opened your egg, you were committed to eating it or finding someone who would. And I don't care for eggs. I just liked the pretty colors. Kind of like the retarded kid at the city-wide Easter Egg Hunt. Eat one? No thanks. But can we go shopping for shoes to match?

Easter makes me think of things that never die: Judy Garland music, Meatloaf's two songs, Sinatra, Hepburn...the classics. Then we have the new class of immortals: Joan Rivers, Anna Nicole, Cher.... The new class is immortal not due to greatness, but because they are no longer biodegradable. They will live forever because there's not much left of them that can decay.

I'm not thrilled about the notion of death, but I accept its inevitability....grudgingly. In a recent discussion about DNR orders, I made it clear that I most certainly want to be resuscitated. I don't want to die from a temporary corporeal glitch that a little paddling might fix. And I'm convinced that the day they pull my plug, CNN will break the news that they found my cure. So I have tattooed my chest with the words: Paddles Go Here. More specifically, I have asked to be plugged in and electrified just shy of electrocution, if they think it will help. Use me as a generator, if you want. Put a plant in my mouth and consider me decor. I don't care.

It's not that I'm afraid to meet my maker. I'd just like to be the last one to do so, thank you very much.

So R, by all means, friggin' R! If I'm in a permanent vegetative state where I have no feeling, no thoughts, no pain, etc., then I promise I won't mind. Just keep me well-drugged and know that I'm silently enjoying my high. If and when I open my eyes, consider that a sign that I'm ready to cope again. And send me to one of the better rehabs. The ones where you can fill an autograph book. If I have to detox, I'd like something I can sell on eBay in return.

I believe, with the Christian masses, (because I am nothing if not Christian), that the dead will rise some day to spend eternity knitting and playing euchre in very nice digs in heaven. How nice.

Like Mr. Beatty said - more or less - "I can wait."

BREAKING NEWS: A Queer Disney Wedding

I have outlived the improbable. Who'dathunk? Disney, the self-proclaimed Happiest Place On Earth, has given its official stamp of approval to Gay Marriage and has offered to host.

I've been to Disneyland. I assume they'll be catering in from L.A.

Let the rumblings begin. If James Dobson, Jerry Falwell and Phyllis Schlafly don't have a harmonic aneurysm within the news cycle, I'll eat my sex toys. The Teletubby, Sponge Bob, Aladdin "Look! A Penis!" crowd will have a heyday. But they'll miss the point entirely.

Assuming that anybody saves "it" for marriage anymore, can there be anything more disconcerting than taking your newly wedded beau on a post-nuptial boat ride to the strains of "It's A Small World"? Size isn't everything. But it certainly isn't nothing, either. And nobody needs the stress of thinking you might have purchased a Small when you really take a 2X.

I love the idea that Mickey, Minnie and Donald might someday attend my coupling. I am not fond of the cheap-shot possibilities concerning Pluto circling Uranus... or my anus. Nobody gets rimmed by a dog without an illegal use of Peanut Butter. (Not that I would know. But I read a LOT.)

And you tell me... Is any queen on his day going to stand for Cinderella flouncing around in pastel blue glory on His Big Disney Day? I don't think so. I once watched a de-wigging between drag queens over nothing more than a shade of nail polish. Cindy might want to consider applying at The View as a permanent replacement for the Still Shrinking (I Used To Be A) Star Jones.

Speaking of The View... TV has never been better than this. Our Gal Rosie is lobbing bombs with more ferocity and accuracy than G.W. Bush. And her Texas accent is better. Who wasn't waiting for somebody to bitch slap La Trump? Only a lesbian would body slam Kelly Ripa for making less than nice with Clay "Let's Pretend I Don't Have Sex" Aiken. And you have to give her some credit for the latest jaw-whomper: the temperature at which steel melts. The ol' gal took high school physics and alleged The Mother Of All Cover-Ups re: 9/11. Hey, even if she's full of shit, at least she's honestly full of it. That's more than any of Babs Bush's Boys can say.
Let's hope Barbara Walters has the requisite balls to keep her around.

(If she had asked, we'd have told her that lesbians are hard to live with - unless you are one. Much like the Box Elder Bug, once you have one, you pretty much have to burn the place down to get rid of them.)

Any guesses as to who will be the first to jump the ancient animated broom? Since Jodie and Anderson ended up more-or-less outed on the cover of Out Magazine recently, maybe they'll go all the way, as it were, and confirm for us all that it is, indeed, "A Whole New World"...whether you bagged a beauty or a beast.

M-I-C, K-E-Y, M-O-U-S-E.

OY! The CRITICS!

You post once in six months and it takes less than 24 hours for somebody to volunteer their editorial remarks.

Dear Nancy,

Yes, I overlooked Jericho. Yes, I live in Kansas. But one must understand our sensitivity to Kansan media portrayals.

First they Wizard of Oz'd us. Then they In Cold Blood-ed us. Now they've Jericho'd us. In one, we were overrun by midgets. In the next, we had overtly homosexual coverage of an inherently heterosexual crime. We pretend we didn't notice when Matt Dillon and company invaded Lawrence for "The Morning After" or "The Day After" or whatever the hell it was called. (We just called it "The Month Matt Dillon And A Bunch Of The Crew From That Movie Hung Out At Our Gay Bar".) As for Jericho...well...I don't know what they're thinking.

I wish I hadn't viewed the South Park Movie - Bigger, Longer and Uncut while assembling my IKEA Microwave Cart. (As Suzanne Westenhoefer points out, "You buy a spatula at IKEA, it comes in two boxes with an Allen wrench.") Skeet Ulrich is therein depicted on a poster above the bed where Satan and Sadaam Hussein consummate their relationship. Spoiled me on Skeet for good. And not just because I assumed from the title that I'd be watching porn.

I like Jericho. I do. But, just as I was jilted by The 4400, Invasion, and The Edge of Night -- CBS has decided that I'll only be interested in following the story every 8 weeks or so. They overestimate my attention span. I watched March Madness. I even filled out a bracket. (I had to pay a $250 fine to keep my Queer Card for that. It went to a Lesbian Breast Cancer Awareness Outreach.) But for God's sake...when you have a serial WhatDunnit that is raking in the ratings, you might want to think about finding a slot for it while the tall boys in loose shorts play their games.

We're leery of embracing Jericho here in Mayberry. We have a reputation of being a tad intolerant toward those who are "diffurnt" or "furrin'". I don't know what, in the white sheets of history, would give people that notion. The story line of Jericho is leaning heavily toward making the people of color the Bad Guys. And, well, we're trying to rehab a tarnished image in these parts. So we offer an official "No Comment" on Jericho as public policy. I don't think our Very Own Democrat Governor has even referred to it. The neighbors don't watch (I asked), because it has black folks in it. They're not prejudiced. There's a local fishing show that only has white people and green fish in the same time slot. And the fish are new every week. They promise.

I also overlooked Jericho in my TV Review post because I hit that magic moment when the Klonopin outranked the Keyboard. My fellow pill-poppers will understand.

Thank you for bringing this oversight to my attention. And lest I be upbraided for being incomplete....I give it a solid B....for Black Folk.

I also seem to have overlooked Grey's Anatomy. Love it! Callie O'Malley for President. I can't tell you how disappointed I was, however, to learn that Callie really is a GIRL! Those Dove commercials broke my heart. This is the only A Grade on the block - Isaiah Washington's externalized homophobia notwithstanding. Some nights I fall asleep to the idea of McDreamy coming to my queer defense to restore my dignity, dry my tears, and take my pants off. Big fan. And thanks to McSteamy, I am once again considering plastic surgery. But only if I can stay awake and only if he'll do it naked. I have a couple shirts that can accomodate a B-cup.

Peace Out!

YAWN!

So I took another 6 months off. Suffer. This is Kansas. Time passes differently here. Besides, I've been very busy killing my t-cells and broke several nails in the process. Winter was not kind to Plains Ol' Me.

Lots of TV is involved when you're sick. Just to catch up:

American Idol - Grade: F Never seen it. Don't care what Sanjaya does with his hair. Like somebody's gonna fuck him if he had a good cut? Please, Marie. George Clooney's hair I care about. Those nameless men in the truck commercials I care about (to an unhealthy degree). An odd-looking child with a Notice Me fetish and unfortunately resilient hair.

Lost - Giving it a B. Can't stop watching it. But it's starting to grate - like the 3 year-old that has perpetual questions and can't answer truthfully whether they have to pee or not. Besides, there are only two true hotties here. The Black Donnellys have more than that in the title family. Tell me what's up with the Smoke Monster or start using showtunes as the ambient music. Otherwise, you're gonna lose me.

Ugly Betty - Solid D. Yes, she is. It doesn't help that I think this is how my exes refer to me.

Desperate Housewives - B+. Ish. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Lost their A+ when Gabrielle started schtupping men over 20. And Terri Hatcher is starting to remind me of the Second Coming of Diane Keaton. She'll ride the frantic, neurotic schtick into the ground and pray for a Lois and Clark movie. I honestly believe Felicity Huffman begged to be the one killed in the grocery store. Hottie Plumber is so high maintenance, not even my NYC girlfriend would do him. Pec, pec, ab, glute, yawn.

So few interesting people are left anymore. Only little girls and old pedophiles care if Paris Hilton flashes her roast beef getting out of her Designated Driver's car. If Betty Ford (the clinic, not the corpse) is really doing rehab for people who use the word "fag" (Isaiah Washington), I know where I'm holding the next big wingding. But only if they open the bar. Madge is so maternal, she's practically kidnapping fly-infested orphans from Angelina Jolie's manicured clutch. We really were down to one good, juicy, nasty, train-wreck of an icon. And now she's gone.

Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole. Dead. Naked. Very Marilyn Monroe, as she would have liked. Only I don't recall Marilyn being upstaged post-mortem by a homely heeb who has the temerity to claim coitus in her uptus. Anna is so gay-appropriate, even from Hell, that she managed to get half a dozen men to lay claim to having juiced her in her final year. All together now: You Go Girl! Men from the nearly sublime to the utterly ridiculous claim to have climbed between those ever-shrinking legs to create the next great Lindbergh Baby. Or...if you will...TrimSpa Baby!

I'm going on record before the Bahama Mamas tell us the skinny on the Sperminator: It's Larry Birkhead. One: He's pretty. The only pretty people around Anna were gay or warming beds. Larry might look prototypically gay. But he's hell-bent on proving that either through the old nasty or the old turkey baster, he is the Baby Daddy to the only trust-fund prodigy this side of Nicole Richie who hasn't been sent appropriate underwear by Rosie O'Donnell. Two: He's pretty. And Three: I'd have done him too. Turkey baster? You betcha. I wouldn't even ask for dinner or jewelry. And that's saying something. I haven't done a man under 6'4" since 1987. But I'd make an exception for that one.

NYC UPDATE: Who went from first date to husband faster than Julia Roberts figured out that Lyle Lovett did not look good in the morning? Contact the blogger if you know.

Until next time....

What I Did On My Summer Vacation - 2006

So I took a month off. Suffer.

August has never been good to me. Since I was diagnosed in '98, every August - like clockwork, I've taken a dive. There were the August Kidney Stones, the August Mystery Fevers, the August Bell's Palsy, and the August "Hey Your Bone Marrow Stopped Working!". Ides of March, my ass.

Since last me met, I've been nipples-deep in church work (singing, playing the piano, etc.). I've also been re-discovering the joy of snake handling. No, we're not THAT kind of Pentecostal. We just have THOSE kinds of people. They don't handle vipers. They are vipers.

It thrills my religified soul to know that mean queens must have learned their craft at the knee of a slithering saint. We may or may not all descend from the same pond. But we all look alike when the lighting is right. As the great philosopher once said, "People are people. So why should it be (that) you and I should get along so awfully?"

I have had phone calls concerned that I had been kidnapped by Exodus, International and was being made to bake cookies for Promise Keepers events. One worried that I had slipped into self-loathing and had traded my chaps for a polyester leisure suit and a tendency to vocalize vowels where none belonged. "In the name-uh, of-uh JESUS-uh." I assured him my diction was unchanged from when last we spoke. G.W. sent out feelers wondering if I would stump with him in the mid-terms to turn out the anti-gay vote.

So we have no mistaking: I still love Jesus. And I still love men. It helps, of course, that outside of Metropolitan Community Church (MCC), I can picture Jesus as a man. The neutering of the deities, however logical and well-intentioned, never did sit well with me. Somewhere in the back of my mind it stuck with me that if they'll cut God's balls off, they wouldn't blink when it came to my own. I like my testicles. They're not terribly useful. But I've grown accustomed to the way my pants hang.

In my absence from this space, I still wrote. I had a letter to the editor of the Kansas City Star published (I'm convinced this is how Hemingway got his start). It was apropos of Fred Phelps and summarizes an early post on this blog. I exchanged emails with an editor from The Advocate (yes, that one) about republishing an interview we did for HIV-Plus Magazine. It may appear in The Advocate soon. Or he may have been hitting on me. Who knows? Today, I wrote another letter to the editor in response to one of those Bush Administration Form Letters every newspaper publishes. They hear from me often now. They'll either give me a column or cancel my subscription.

So yes, I'm alive. Yes, I've been getting laid. Yes, I'm still in church (because God knows there aren't enough heterosexuals to fill all the music posts in all the churches). We appreciate your concern. And we thank you for your support.

No More

I would like to go on record as being against procreation. No more kids. No more gap-toothed heterosexuals with a 4th grade reading level bringing up another set of what our President turned out to be. No more explosives-wielding, gun-toting, potty-mouthed, unruly, disobedient banshees whose parents look the other way like it's not their problem. You want a gay agenda? I'll give you agenda point 4, section (b), subsection (iii):

"Children, to the greatest extent necessary, should be eradicated from society along with those who created them."

This means no more American Family Association being worried about what's on my TV because it may negatively impact the children I don't own. Note to Don Wildmon: The dog has never once exhibited promiscuous behavior from my watching Days of our Lives. Nor has he ever used "cocksucker" in polite company after watching Deadwood. Perhaps it would help if you spay or neuter your children? I don't care to have my television options sanitized down for the consumption of a 4 year-old.

No More Children means that eventually there will be no more young homosexuals. We middle-agers will become attracted to today's 20 year-olds at the appropriate time. And that generation beneath us would never have their heads turned by someone 20 years younger...because they wouldn't exist. "But," you protest, "...eventually there will be no more ANYBODY if the breeders stop breeding!" Perhaps this is true, but once you die, tell me you're going to give a shit. It's like one final fling with Narcissism: No more after me!

No more young homosexuals will mean the eventual return of the only music handed down directly from God to Man: Disco. Soon, the thumpity thump thump of this lyricless mess of noise will dissipate into the bad dream it was meant to be (crystal trips notwithstanding) and we'll actually get words back in our dance music. They've taken the words out because younger homosexuals can neither read nor remember for long periods of time. I've yet to meet a gay man under 30 who could recite the words to both "It's Raining Men" and "I Will Survive". And I'm a little tired of having them look at me funny on Oldies Night at the bar. In time, today's young "queers" will be middle-aged and cranky with deteriorating joints and they'll long for the smooth, therapeutic dance therapy of Disco.

No more children means heterosexuals will have to stop using their kids as the reason they hate us. They'll have to hate us on their own two feet. Soon, straight women everywhere will have good reason to fear going to the beauty shop. Straight men will start guessing at their inseam length. All heterosexuals will have to eat at home for fear that the queens they've slandered will spit something toxic in their food. (And don't think we wouldn't.) Broadway will charge heterosexuals a Breeder's Premium to come see the gay folks they've pissed off: just because. Any movie with a gay actor - including the Mission Impossible series - will be Off Limits to straight people as reparations for the decades of shit heaped upon our heads.

Lesbians would turn their strollers into portable coolers. Gay men would turn their baby beds into uber-chic bars. Donna Summer will be forced to pick sides once and for all. Mr. Mapother would have to choose the closet or the crypt. Anne Heche-DeGeneres-LaFoon would spontaneously combust. Like fireworks. Which is where I had this idea in the first place.

Children with fireworks gave me a vision for the future. I will likely not live to see it fulfilled, but it was a beautiful glimpse of What Could Be. Will you join me, hand-in-hand, to build a better future for ourselves and our libidos? Imagine Jerry Falwell's head on a stick at The White Party in a sort of Taliban-cum-Circuit victory dance. As Tinkerbell told Peter, "Just close your eyes and think happy thoughts!"

Oh....and don't take the extra Klonopin when you go to bed. When they say two is the limit, they mean it. Two makes you happy and sleepy. Three gives you dreams of offing straight people and preachers' heads on sticks. Just two. No more.

(No children or heterosexuals were harmed in the making of this entry.)

I Hate This Crap

For 8 days, the town of Mayberry, KS shudders, thunders and crackles with the sounds of faux war. The mini-rockets' red glare in the sky intend to remind us of a great battle that won us our independence. Itty bitty bombs bursting in air should move our hearts to patriotism. Four year-olds stand in the middle of the street lighting fireworks as big as their head. Grownups flash a sparse-toothed smile at the gas station as they show the finger they lost in last year's foolishness. I really, really don't like the 4th of July.

I don't like that The Dalton Gang two doors down wasn't born with the collective sense not to shoot the Roman Candles they're holding in the direction of the 80 year-old wood-shingled houses in the neighborhood. It irks me that our City Litres (more drink than leadership) allow this booming annoyance for 8 solid days. When we were kids (I got permission to use that phrase for my 42nd Birthday), we got one day, maybe....and if we weren't old enough to vote or be drafted, we were stuck with sparklers and those little snakes that smoked and oozed like some sort of underworld miscarriage.

Now, I watch grown people with a high school education let their pre-school children light full-on firecrackers and run away giggling. I think I was 30 before my dad let me light a firework in his presence. Granted, I was a little goonier than your average kid, so you can't blame the guy for being a little leery of what I might do with explosives and the family home. But still. Today, that man has his pre-teen grandchildren glued to him as he lights Really Big Fireworks. Some of those tip over. Mainly, they tip over because they were never meant to be lit on a tilted picnic table by drunk people. When they do tip over, something in the manufacturing of these maiming devices makes sure they point toward the greatest concentration of people in lawn chairs.

I have a kink in my back from trying to outrun a rogue explosive device, dodge a campfire, and maneuver around several older people too slow to get out of my way. This is fun? Drinking I understand. Drugs I understand. I understand Bungie Jumping, Mountain Climbing, Fire Walking and that stupid Glass-Walking stuff they do. But I will never understand fireworks.

Murphy, the Yorkie in whose home I abide, does neither pee nor poop for the 8 days that the noise is present. Last night, we engaged in a battle of wills for close to an hour over whether he would pee outside with minimal fireworks distraction. He won. The day before, I drove him to the town square, where it was relatively free of explosions, and he promptly deposited all of his bodily holdings on the lawn of the court house. "Serves them right," I thought. I'm fairly sure he was thinking the same thing.

Today will be the last day, presumably, that we endure Baghdad Syndrome. Tomorrow, he will defecate with abandon and whizz on everything that dares stand still in his presence. It's not that we're unpatriotic, the dog and I. We just like our patriotism quiet...the way we like children and people who watch Fox News.
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A box arrived from New York City last week with the discarded contents of an over-crowded Hell's Kitchen closet. My friend, David, was making room for the latest child in love with whom he is. His temporary madness has resulted in my permanent enrichment. Surprised am I that Gray Pants are so big among the gay set in NYC. And the number of shades between gray and tan fairly boggle the mind. A surprising number of GAP items were in the box. I knew that Kansas gay folks shopped at The Gap because they tend to employ friendly fat girls who make good ha...err...friends. I had no idea it was apparently genetic and a habit on the coast, as well.

Valentino, Barney's, one lovely mint-green pullover (no tag, obviously synthetic, but still...), Banana Republic, Bergdorf Goodman (made in Italy), Giorgio Freakin' Armani, Calvin Klein, Jhane Barnes. This kid has been good for my closet. But every cloud, we learn on this journey, has its ugly lining. In the box, toward the bottom, was another human being's underwear and Speedo swimsuit.

Now, I am not averse to taking a bite off of someone's plate. And God knows, back in the years when inclination and opportunity met in a moment of Kismet, I have journeyed into other folks' underpants. But I have always been skeeved by the notion of actually putting them on. I was never an underwear snatcher...even at my lowest point. I eschewed the offering of underpants at garage sales, yard sales, barn sales, auctions and the like. I think that's because I was raised with Jesus.

Heathens...they'll steal your underpants. But nobody who's ever been to Sunday School will snatch your drawers...or want them. I paid $30 (a paltry sum for the treasures I was sent) to have them shipped here. It would cost me a third of that to have the underpants sent home, where they belong. They are, to a piece, handsome and probably far more pricey than my tight fist would have sprung for. I held them to my face, piece-by-piece, to feel what the natural fibers we grow 'round these parts become when they're made into clothing for the rich folks.

I stopped rubbing his clothes on my face when I spied the underpants. From then on, I stood back a step with a can of Lysol and applauded politely. I know people, though. I know people who would put on somebody else's underwear before the other person was completely out of them. So they'll go to good use. Somebody in this great Prairie Paradise will be walking around oblivious to the fact that they are undergirded by cloth that once supported a Manhattan demi-socialite who has sipped champagne with some of the better of the unknown people in society.

We are interesting, as a nation, since our independence was gained in 1776. Two hundred and thirty years later we hand explosives and a cigarette lighter to children who have been banned from touching the knobs on the stove, t.v. or stereo. And we ship our underpants to other people. I would have thought we might be more evolved by now. It must be the Republican influence: Blow something up, send your underpants overseas. I bet that's in their platform somewhere.

I Hate This Crap.