The Gospel According to John

I'm a Gay Man, Not a Lap Dog

 Am I alone in finding both the nomenclature and the existence of the overzealous “fag hag” a bit cloying nowadays? Apparently not.

A few days ago, resident dumbshit writer Wendy Atterberry at The Frisky, which is a website I’ve never heard of in my life but is apparently a thing so fine, wrote this...thing called “What Does A Girl Have To Do To Get A Gay BFF Around Here?” that made me wince, gnash, scowl, eyeroll and finally spit, “Oh, fuck you, Wendy” in the direction of my laptop screen. (And that’s beside the incorrect title caps that make this former copyeditor want to slap the entire staff of this “The Frisky” thing, just for good measure.)

Seems that this Wendy has recently left her Chicago bubble to marry a man in New York, and perplexingly, in her three years of living her new Manhattan married life no doubt intended to duplicate that of Carrie Bradshaw and Mr. Big (care to place bets on whether the invitations were embossed with, “If you find someone who loves the you you love? Well that’s just fabulous”?), has not been able to find a single gay man with whom to be BFFs! OMG! WTF? IMSWDOIHTDTFASTMCYG?!? (That’s, “I mean seriously what do I have to do to find a Stanford to my Carrie you guys?!?”)

Here’s what Wendy is missing:

• “When it comes to the really important things, like karaoke, watching awards shows, and getting an honest opinion on my hair, I find myself in dire need of a few good gays.”
• “…[W]hen I started dating a new guy, there was no guilt-trip like I might have gotten with a group of girlfriends. No one complained that I was suddenly less available for impromptu late-night fashion shows. They cheered me on and reminded me again and again that the best way to get over a guy is to get under another one.”
• “I don’t have a gay guy to help me pick out fake fur coats at flea markets!”

Oh fuck you, Wendy.

Presented Without Comment

Okay, maybe one: CLOSETED HOMOSEXUALS SHAKING THE DEVIL OFF WITH KIP DYNAMITE. That will be all.

Source

Okay, fine. I was wrong. Partly.

Time for a partial retraction.

Firstly, I take back every nice thing I said about Ms. Prejean. She has, in direct opposition to her stated view of, shall we say, tolerant dissension, chosen to appeal to the lesser angels of her nature. She’s taken the low road and become a full-on bigot, and, as befits her coulda-been role as Miss California, of all things, has sold herself out to puppetry of the right wing ideological variety. Have fun with that, Carrie! I can’t wait until you discover what utter fools you’re now speaking for! Fools who make videos like this!

(Though something tells me you’re lacking the intellectual acumen to ever figure this out. Bless.)

All that said, Perez Hilton is still far from off the hook here. Why?

The Villain Here is Perez Hilton

Seriously? I can't fucking take it anymore.

 

SHUT. UP. 

Can we take a quick break from all the silliness for a second? Because I need to run my mouth. 

I’m No Fan of Miss California. Obviously. But who I really can’t stand here is Perez Hilton. And as such, I'd like to politely request that everyone shut the fuck up about this Perez v. Miss California flap. Why?

The Individual Formerly Known as Rupert Everett: A Very Important Update!

The plot thickens.

As you may remember, last week we discussed The Individual Formerly Known as Rupert Everett, or TIFKARE (totally unwieldy moniker, that, but we'll get to it in a minute), and his recent decision to remove the face of Chuck Woolery and have it implanted atop his own skull. 

Exhibit A:

As you likely remember, we discussed a few theories as to what, exactly, has happened to Rupie: he's on the lam; he has actually been replaced by a melty-faced space alien who visage can take on any form it likes; or, in a gambit to enhance his career, he has surgically transformed himself into soap opera character John Black-DiMera.

Much has been made of Rupert's new face, but answers have been elusive, particularly in light of the commendable researched performed by the Fug Girls. 

A Full-Scale Investigation Is Needed

Friends, after a sleepless night thinking about this

my concern has grown exponentially. It just doesn’t add up. Strange, strange things are afoot at Rupert's Circle-K, and I am distressed.

There’s no harm in going in for a touch-up of an afternoon in your 50s. Everyone sags. It’s part of life. Rupert there, on the left, is, admittedly, decidedly saggy. Personally, I feel that it’s sort of rugged and weathered and sexy—particularly with the stubble—and am rather a bit turned on by the whole thing.

But wrong-headed others may find it a bit haggard. And that’s fine. And there’s nothing wrong with a bit of smoothing and lifting and touching-upping. But it seems to have gotten out of control.

And we’re not even talking WWF out of control. WWF, while ill-advised and, from certain angles and in certain lighting, deeply discomfiting, has not stopped Madonna from looking like Madonna. Nay, rather, at its best, WWF makes Madonna look like Madonna at, say, 30; at its worst, it makes Madonna look like Madonna at, say…well, 50 and undergoing a TRAGIC mid-life crisis. Fine.

But this

well, this is distressing. For many reasons, the most salient of which is that I’M NOT EVEN SURE THIS IS EVEN ACTUALLY EVEN RUPERT EVERETT EVEN.

Dear Rupert Everett

What in the ever-loving hell have you done.

As evidenced on the left, you used to be the sexiest queen in Christendom. Now, you look like a youth pastor. Or a newscaster. Or Chuck Woolery. 

INCORRECT.

Source

Craigslist Treasures--IN REAL LIFE!!

Well sort of. Not technically from Craigslist. It was from some other website.

BUT! It’s every bit as amazing and arousing and nauseating as our regular Craigslist Treasures, but with extra spice cuz it happened to someone we (I and my non-existent editorial team) know! Like, personally!

I know!

So skip to my loo (what does that MEAN exactly? Were this England, it would mean skip to my bathroom, which makes NONE sense and is kind of, you know, eeuuggh) or some other euphemism for jumping!

Second Annual Should Win/Will Win!

Well, kidlets. The world is burning down around us, but so what! Because Sunday is the Gay Super Bowl! (That’s the Oscars. ‘citing, isn’t it? I know! Uh!)

Which means it’s time for our second annual Should Win/Will Win! Yayyyyy!

It's a tough competition this year, folks. The Should Win part, in particular. But even the Will Win is a bit tricky. Granted, some of it can be summed up thusly: 

• Delightful English Girl Whom of Late the English Have Suddenly, for Some Reason, Turned On 
• Former Spouse of Madonna Pulling a Hilary Swank
• Injuns (tikka masala, not teepees)

But the rest is all a bit murky, no? 

Ah! But! This year, I’ll be utilizing the stats skills of Mr. Nate Silver! Hurrah! He’s the one who basically fortune-told the whole presidential election using math. Or maths, if you’re British.

So he’s like even more omnipotent than Our Lady of Intergalactic Resplendence!

Anyway, he’s figured the whole ceremony out, and if you’re smart, you’ll set your Oscar pool clocks by his watch and then win lots of dough at work, instead of that douchebag suburban commuter lady who always leaves those passive-aggressive notes in the lunch room and wins the Oscar pool every year because she has no idea what’s going on and saw none of the movies and just guesses on every category and gets lucky! Yay!

So jump the jump and we’ll try to get this sorted.

Craigslist Treasures

It’s been a while since our last Craigslist Treasures, the feature wherein we (meaning, as always, me, you and my nonexistent editorial team) take a look at the absolutely, fully and actively insane people posting dating ads on Craigslist. Huzzah!

Recently, I have had submitted to me by my sources (by which I mean I discovered myself whilst perusing Craigslist as a means of cutting the boredom of work by indulging in cyber-schadenfreude) a specimen so tantalizing, I can scarcely contain my erection. (Good God! Uncalled for.)

It begins thusly:

 

Who doesn’t! So do like the Pointer Sisters and jump! For his love!