Derby, UK -- Sometimes the virtual world collides with flesh-time in the oddest ways. Submitted for your approval: meet John and Lisa Best. Two months ago, John discovered "Second Life," a virtual role-playing universe in which the flatulent, obese and generally repulsive can reinvent themselves as sexually desirable, socially adept avatars. Since then, Ms. Best took note of the fact that husband John no longer seemed all too interested in riding the Lisa-bull around the mattress of their marital rodeo. And one night not so long ago, she stumbled upon a possible clue as to why.
In the wee small hours, Lisa awakened to see John (in bed, beside her), pajamas 'round his ankles, tappety-tap-tapping away at his laptop whilst logged onto SL. His avatar, homo-erotically named Troy Hammerthall, was apparently engaged in the sort of Leviticus-defying ass-wrangling that makes the Pope nervous and causes Republican senators to tap-dance in public toilet stalls.
After eye-balling John's icky on-line behavior for a few minutes, Lisa sat up and demanded an explanation. John slammed his laptop shut (hopefully not on his engorged joystick) and insisted it was all for giggles and grins, not to be taken seriously.
The next day, Lisa embarked on a snoop mission by opening John's laptop and poking about. She soon discovered that Troy Hammerthall had a black belt in poking about in a most unseemly manner. There were screen shots of Mr. Hammerthall sashaying about at the rudely named Bondage Ranch, whip in-hand, participating in acts so vile they promptly drove Ms. Best to demand a divorce. This, in spite of John's dubious (and spectacularly Freudian) assertion that he hasn't "a gay bone in his body" (a situation one strongly suspects he wishes to correct).
As you might imagine, we have some things to say about this.
First, to Ms. Best: Although filing for divorce was probably wise, forgive us for suggesting that when your husband started taking his laptop to bed, that really should have sent up a few distress flares. And despite the fact that you look like a jaundiced manatee who's been hit by a shovel more than once, hubby John is unlikely to be belle of the ball at the next White Party foam dance. Neither of you are pin-up material. Perhaps the smarter move would have been to invent an avatar of your own. We might suggest an obscenely hung leather daddy named Mister Fister. That way, you could at least get your cyber-freak on. We can visualize romantic evenings, side-by-side in bed, frantically typing with one hand as you...actually we don't want to visualize that at all. Ew. Never mind.
And now, to Mr. Best:While we are loathe to plaster labels on folks, this really must be said. You need to make the following purchases, post-haste: a tribal tattoo for your ass, a subscription to Vogue, a butt plug, a shih-tzu and a Miata. Because bitch, you're gayer than Ted Haggard on Tony night.
That is all.
Troy Hammerthall sez: "Everyone at the Bondage Ranch subscribes to this blog's feed"