I was awakened this morning by an ill wind. This wind was covered with fur and teeth. This wind has a name: Fredo and Livia. They are my miniature schnauzers, and they are a pair of thugs. They wake me each morning by slapping me with their oversized panda paws.
The attack this morning seemed particularly brutal and urgent. I grabbed Fredo by his deceptively sweet face, and asked, “Do you sense a hurricane or tsunami, or are you just being a bastard?”
It’s always hard to tell whether these dogs are trying to alert me to coming danger, or are simply in the mood to beat the hell out of me. This morning, something in Fredo’s dense stare suggested trouble was afoot.
“What is it, boy?” I asked, looking deep into his vacant eyes. “Are you trying to tell me that horrible woman at the office is attempting to sabotage me again?”
I have spent a good many column inches over the years complaining about lesbians. However, my chief complaint is that not enough lesbians want to sleep with me.
Rarely do I have an issue with the collective character of lesbians. The great thing about being a lesbian is that because you love women, you are, in general, respectful of all women. (Excluding, of course, the woman you happen to be sleeping with at the moment. Then, all bets are off.)
While I also love straight women, I loathe a particular brand of straight woman. That type—and please forgive me for invoking the devil’s name in this column—is the Sarah Palin type. They’re the vicious young Republican women who think the only way to get ahead is to oppress their sistahs, and rub up against the ruling men folk. They are sickly sweet, without humor, dimwitted, talentless, highly ambitious, and as dangerous as a viper with great hair.
The worst thing about this type is that they hate women. They consider us the enemy, and think we are too stupid to realize that they want to destroy us. So, they spend their evenings baking us cookies (which we all know isn’t a gesture of goodwill, but a blatant attempt to get us fat), and spend their days sweetly stabbing us in the back.
One of these creatures recently slithered into my office, and immediately commenced causing trouble. Every woman in the joint quickly and universally reviled her, and a committee was created to nip this hateful wretch in her rapidly expanding bud. And by bud, I mean ass. Honestly, she should lay off the cookies she insists on shoving down our throats.
My straight girls nominated me as head of our coven, because who better to take down this woman-hating menace than a sassy lesbian with great charm, big breasts, and a way with men?
As a self-loathing beast who refuses to release the terrible specter of her hero, George W. Bush, from her grasping clutches, she is horrified and terrified by gays. Especially this gay—the one with the adjoining office. She knows that her ham-handed techniques for manipulating men don’t stand a chance against a lesbian who enjoys merrily titillating the boss with tales of girl-on-girl action.
My office sistah wives and I have hatched a scheme that uses my gayness as a glorious weapon. In meetings, they ask me if I plan on having sex with my girlfriend that night. I respond with a lustful “Yes!” even if it’s American Idol night, and I know damn well that we never have sex on that night.
Then, we watch in delight as the men folk perk up and agree to my every demand, and as the she-devil quakes in disgust and fear, knowing she has met her match.
Hey! I wrote a book. You can buy Dateland on Amazon.