Gayness Doesn't Pay

Yesterday, on the Mighty Blog, I read one of the gayest blog posts that has ever been written. And I don't mean the good kind of gay that brings us Fashion Week, track lighting, and hip clothing. I mean the other kind of gay. I'm talking about the I-just-found-out-that-my-newlywed-wife-is-really-a-man-who-is-mighty-skilled-in-the-use
-of-kleenex-duct-tape-and-estrogen kind of gay. In the aforementioned post, Dyckerson tries to use sensitivity in an attempt to lure women into the sack with him. In response to the gayness of it all, I decided to go to the store.

I went to Klein's to get some Beano. The girl (I say girl because, although she looked 75, it was a youthful 75) who checked me out (as in, “the checkout lane”) commented, “I like your crotchless moo-moo.” (Of course, I guess she checked me out as she checked me out).

I’d forgotten which crotchless moo-moo I was wearing so I started to stammer “Oh, thanks,” but then I remembered Dyckerson's post. I thought to myself, "Maybe it's like penicillin--if it can work for Dyckerson maybe it can work for me." So I tried the sensitive approach and said, "Thanks. I'm sorry about the hole in my moo-moo, but I can't afford a new one because I gave all my money to the starving orphans of Poontangia." At that point, my brain contemplated two things: one, what crotchless moo-moo was I wearing? and two, assuming this cute checkout chick still had clean Depends on, would it be possible to parlay her enjoyment of my moo-moo into enjoyment of coming over and cleaning my oven?

As it turns out, I severly underestimated the potency of the Dyckerson approach, because out of nowhere she exclaimed, "That's gayest thing I've ever heard. Take me now, Moo-moo Stud." I was still playing the sensitivity angle, so I replied, "Oh, no. I'm saving myself for marriage." My protestations were in vain, because in one deft motion, she hurdled the counter, put in her dentures, and chewed off the straps of my moo-moo. Next, she slammed me down onto the checkout conveyor, grabbed a bar-b-que fork out of the the next patron's basket, and screamed, "Giddyup." I made good on my chance of escape when she went for the bar-b-que tongs. As I ran out the door, I heard the manager yelling, "Stop, thief. You have to pay for that merchandise."

After getting out of the store, I looked down to see what I was wearing — a new bar-b-que fork stuck in my left buttcheek — and my ass concluded not to listen to Dyckerson anymore.