Can O' Whup-Ass

How we met Rob: a totally true story

So last night we attended a screening of an odd yet hilarious independent film called "Co-dependent Lesbian Space Alien Seeks Same," starring a college friend. After the credits rolled, the producer bounded onstage with the following announcement: "Ladies and gentlemen, I thought you might like to know that our state legislature just legalized gay marriage." The cheers were deafening. There are good days, aren't there?

There's been a subtle yet unmistakable shift. Today we are less of a them and more of an us. And that's what Gay Pride, with all its disco, leather harnesses and g-strings, has always been about (yet we admit a platoon of dykes on bikes leading battalion of baton-twirling homos prancing about in jock straps is an excellent way to be seen as a "Them" with a capitol "T"). And yet, the straights came through. Even some Republicans. Overwhelmingly, gay family members and friends changed their hearts and minds.

And with that in mind, this is how we met Rob...

Once upon a time we'd throw annual gay pride parties on our massive East Village roof deck. There were balloons, streamers, grilled fruit skewers, reefers, martinis, and (at the party's apex) servings of magical mushroom tea. Folks came in drag, leather, party boy spandex. But it was all very co-ed. Male, female, gay, straight. Fellini on poppers. And on the boombox, Ethel Merman's disco album did battle with ABBA, Madonna and Carmen Miranda (thank you, Bruce).

During one such soiree, two stunningly beautiful heterosexual women (fierce bitches by the name of Claudia and Deborah), both clad in halter tops and daisy dukes, briefly left the festivities to pick up some ice at the corner bodega. While they were there, they thought it would be cute if they also purchased some chocolate covered cherries and several dozen condoms in festive gold coin wrappers.

At this point, they caught the eye of a handsome Jewish straight NYU student who was buying a six pack of Heiniken.

"Hey, What's your name?"
"Um...Rob."
"Hi Um Rob, I'm Claudia. This is Deborah."
"Hi."
"So we're having a party, care to join us?"

Poor thing. Two primo specimens of babe-a-licious boobocity, brandishing a bag of ice, chocolate covered cherries and enough prophylactics for the Russian army. He thought he'd stumbled onto the kind of paradise you only read about in Hustler or the Koran.

We remember when our girls escorted a stunned Rob into the throng of the party and immediately abandoned him to flirt with the homos (a zero stakes game). The homos, in turn, preferred flirting with Rob, the reluctant belle of the ball. We have photographs of that party. There's Rob on a bench, surrounded with homos, his lopsided grin frozen, his eyes betraying a kind of terror.

We must have had a profound effect on him, for he promptly abandoned his studies and fled to Budapest to write about gypsies. We stayed in touch, though. And evench, after he returned stateside, he even moved into our vast, decrepit cold-water loft where he lived for a few years.

He saw us through a brutal break-up with an attorney who turned out to be a married embezzler. We, in turn, commiserated with him through two nasty divorces.

Rob has a bad habit of falling in love with the kind of gal you can live with for several years, but runs screaming for the hills within a year of exchanging vows, suddenly discovering she doesn't "see herself married." And frankly, we're not sure we do either.

Perhaps us homos are like the indians who were so ecstatic at first to receive those pox infested blankets from the white man. Marriage equality is divorce equality, after all. Hooray! And...um...thanks?

We recall when Rob returned from vacationing in Majorca with a contraband bottle of Absinthe in tow. During the trip he'd broken up with a dishwater blonde Polish gal (he tends to like fair-haired Eastern European chicks with thick accents who are perpetually bored and have rude personalities).

We each did a couple shots, getting acquainted with the green fairy. Rob grew increasingly remorseful about his lost Polski baleboste.

And absinthe made the tart grow blonder.

xox
WAM

Claudia 'n' Deborah say: "we DARE you to subscribe to this blog's feed."

A brief note of friendly concern: Dear Callista Gingrich

Excuse us. Ms. Gingrich? May we call you Callista?

How about Cally, then? Or Cally-cally-bo-bally-banana-fana-fo-fally? You have no idea what we're saying, do you?

Tell you what. Let's lose that spectacularly unappealing dude by the onomonopoetically correct name of "Newt" and slink off to a flatteringly-lit cocktail lounge. We can split an Oxy and order a pitcher of Bellinis! Doesn't that sound hi-LAR-ious?? We KNOW!!

So. Callista. Callista-Callista-Callista. We're going to say this the nicest way we know how. Ready?

You look like the unholy spawn of Cindy McCain and the Joker from Batman. Now, don't get upset. You are upset, aren't you? We can't really tell. You can't even blink, poor thing.

You've a helluva  cross to bear, being the one-time mistress and future ex-wife of that malodorous tub of paste. And were we ever to sober up to discover we've been matrimonially shackled to a universally loathed sack of cat barf whose paunch is outsized only by his double chin, who's to say we wouldn't also botox ourselves into a stupor and have our face lifted into a permanent malivolent trophy wife smile? How else could we mask the clinically depressed pill zombie we'd become? No, we're not accusing you of anything. Just a stab in the dark.

But here's the thing Supercallistafragalistaexpialedoshia, need we mention the name Kitty Dukakis?

That poor woman barely made it through a campaign and she was chugging rubbing alcohol and antifreeze. You hardly seem more stable than Miss Kitty.

And should you be named Miss FLOTUS number 45, we shudder to imagine the White House Easter Egg hunt. It would be a blood bath. Crying children, disemboweled bunnies. Are we wrong?

But see, as you know from experience, should you come down with cancer or gout or even a nasty case of hay fever, Newtie-kins is likely to heave you overboard for his mistress du jour. And then he'll prolly pay off the Cathy-lick cardinals to stop schtupping altar boys long enough to annul your marriage so he can keep gnawing on Jesus' body every time communion rolls around. He's done it before.

So we think you're wise to throw a monkey wrench into hubby's lost-cause campaign. Dragging him to Greece, insisting on extra hair-do time.

Kudos, by the way, on your aerodynamically unstable Mary-Tyler-Moore-season-six-helmet-head-dipped-in-peroxide-and-sprayed-to-oblivion 'do. While every morning's expenditure of Aqua-net likely opens up another gaping hole in our o-zone, the end result is a hairdo that can withstand hurricanes, tsunamis and flourescent lighting.

Because if we're being honest with ourselves, the odds of you and hubby Newt moving into the White House are roughly the same as Lady Ga-Ga winning the Nobel for physics.

So even though hubby Newt has loaded you up with half a million in Tiffany's bling, would you not be happier squatting in a menstrual hut with a macrame hobbyist from Vermont? Yes.

Our advice? Take a yoga class, become a vegan, download Silvia Plath to your Kindle, dash off to Cabo, take a ceramics class and have a lesbian affair with a ferret owner named Fran.

We see no other way out of your personal, private heck.

xox
WAM

Callista sez: "Newt's Tiffany's account never got me a subscription to this blog's feed."

 

Gov. Rick Perry unveils long-awaited Republican fiscal strategy: cry and pray!

Rick Perry (Governor of Texas, ABBA fan, gaydar activator) has taken a break lately from his many closed-door meetings with his Secretary of State and his personal chef in order to team up with that notorious homophobes-for-Jesus outfit called the AFA. They want to see if they can't solve the problems of Texas and the U.S. The U.S. of course, is the country Texas keeps trying to secede from but still loves anyway (behavior, which to our mind likens Texas to some battered bowling alley waitress on the Springer show).

See, God's favorite political party has been caterwaulin' about the deficit. So the first thing they did was lower taxes. Wait, what? Seems when you lower taxes, revenues shrink and the deficit GROWS! Oops!!

Hey, let's make America number one again by firing our teachers and taking grandma's medicine away! After all, most decent folks home-skool their kids anyways cause they don't want their precious noggins polluted by all that science flapdoodle. As for grandma, she's an insufferable freeloader who smells like rosewater and pee. Hold on, pardner! The old biddy also votes!! Who, oh who can save us now?? I know! JESUS!!

But let's think about this. Jesus has been acting a tad cranky lately, what with sending V-5 tornadoes to the red states, rudely refusing to rapture the righteous back on May 21.

A brief sidenote on that whole rapture business. We were bitterly disappointed when it didn't happen. Heck, we'd happily endure a magnitude 10 earthquake and a year or two of pestilence if it meant all the folks who fancied themselves rapture fodder were suddenly yanked off the planet. Not only would it have made life on earth infinitely pleasanter on the whole, but our total average weight would have dropped by at least 300 pounds. Speaking of which, perhaps Jesus (despite his Superman strength) was simply unable to budge their fat fundamentalist asses off the ground. Pity, that.

Where were we. Oh yes. Our favorite showtune-humming homo-hating Governor, Rick Perry, has decided that praying to Jesus is the only viable Republican solution to the deficit problem. And if we ask real nice, he might send tornadoes to Greenwich Village and San Francisco, where they belong. But just like the whos in Whoville, we gotta get thousands of us together and pray and weep REAL LOUD so that Horton Jesus will hear us.

So on August 6, Perry will host a spectacle called "The Response," where tens of thousands of evangelicals will get all gussied up in their Sunday stretch pants so they can pray and cry at a stadium in Houston. Because who doesn't love going to Houston in August, especially if it means wedging themselves into an arena crammed to the rafters with fat crying Jesus freaks?

After all, as Governor Perry states on the Response website:

"I sincerely hope you’ll join me in Houston on August 6th and take your place in Reliant Stadium with praying people asking God’s forgiveness, wisdom and provision for our state and nation. There is hope for America. It lies in heaven, and we will find it on our knees."

Attaboy, Rick. Not only have we zero doubt you do your best work on your knees, we're also quite certain that you frequently find what your looking for in that very position.

But we do have our doubts on the efficacy of the scheme. Because every Texan prays and cries nightly. And when the dawn comes, they wake and realize their prayers have fallen on deaf ears: they're still in Texas.

xox
WAM

Governor Perry sez: "I'll get down on my  knees for a subscription to this blog's feed."

 

Sarah Palin would like to talk about American history and other stuff also

*** FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE ***

Hi there. I have decided to take a break from riding on the bitch seat of Harleys and not telling the press where my next press conference is happening so I can talk about my answer to that "gotcha" question a rude Boston reporter asked me about Paul Revere and I want to talk about other stuff also.

You know, us Republicans don't always get every single fact right. So okay I once said we've got to stand by our North Korean allies. Fine, Tim Pawlenty thinks we have soldiers in Iran. So what if Michele Bachmann thinks the Pilgrims landed in New Hampshire? And if Herman Cain doesn't know the difference between the Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution, what's the big whoop-de-do? They were both written by the same bewigged homos who pranced about in tights. What does it matter anyway? True Americans don't care about facts. They care about guns and Jesus and keeping every negro in the White House backstairs, where they belong.

So okay, when I was asked about Paul Revere, I said:

"He who warned, uh, the British that they weren’t going to be taking away our arms uh by ringing those bells and making sure as he’s riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be secure and we were going to be free and we were going to be armed."

And so now folks are saying I don't know history good. But that's a fib from the lame-stream media. Because history, as we know, is written by the victors (Obama/Biden), and they would like nothing better than to have you believe their socialist version of the story. But I'm riding a big bus now and it's my turn write history my way and stuff.  And now, when decent Christians put on their teachin' stretch pants to home school their kids about Paul Revere, this is what they're going to learn:

Once upon a time, the British came to America to take our guns and give us abortions and force Obamacare down our throats. So Jesus got a bunch of Tea Partiers together and told them the red coats were planning to make Sam Adams and George Washington get gay married at the statue of liberty. Then Betsy Ross leaned out of a Church tower holding two lanterns and screamed "remember the Alamo!" And that's when Paul Revere got on his horse and started riding up to the red coats and ringing his bell and stuff and then the British got mad and flew kamikaze airplanes into the Pentagon. After that, some Democrats tried to change the story to make it about how Paul Revere was really warning the colonists about a coming squirmish with the redcoats and they would have gotten away with it too if I didn't refutiate it on the YouTube, causing my fans (aka True Americans TM) to go on Wikipedia and change it back the way it should have been. The End.

xox
WAM