Well, I guess it was inevitable. I'm actually getting irritated at somebody preaching tolerance.

The woman behind Raising My Rainbow has a "slightly effeminate, possibly gay, totally fabulous son." (She remains anonymous to protect him.) C. J. loves pink. C. J. steals clothes out of Mom's closet. C. J. demands a Barbie doll instead of a G. I. Joe. Needless to say, C. J. gets a lot of strange looks when he's out in public. While strangers yell that Mom needs to butch up the kid, she defends him, applauding his unconventional choices and creating a storm of controversy that propelled her all the way to the Today show.

Needless to say, the gays have been cheering her along.

With the latest blog entry, though, Mom starts to wear out her welcome. Her tone has changed. Is she being supportive of a girly-boy, or is she, well, egging him on?

He liked the feel and fabric of this number. The long sash in the back sent him over the edge. It was originally the shirt from a boy’s Arabian Nights costume, but that’s not how C.J. prefers it.

He marched himself straight to the garage and found some rope. He cut it with blunt scissors and made me tie it at the waist. Hello belted shirtdress!

See, she loses me here. She's talking about an oversized shirt, tied with rope. Doesn't that make it a tunic? I mean, picture this scene in Sherwood Forest:

ROBIN HOOD: Okay, Merry Men! Methinks it's time to earn your keep. Yon fanciful carriage approaches: everybody put your belted shirtdresses on.

Here we have C.J. wearing a Valentine’s Day-themed dish towel as a stylish heart-flecked skirt. After sneaking a belt from his brother’s room he held the towel up to his waist and insisted that I belt it around him.

St. Valentine himself would be proud.

Oh, puh-leeze. It's a tea towel and a belt. How do you know he wanted to make a skirt? Maybe it's a big loincloth. Until he actually adds pleats, darts or ruching, the jury is out. Because, you know, it's not particularly easy to grab a tea towel and a belt and make pants.

My main complaint here, though, is that C. J. had access to anything in the house. And instead of going into Mom's closet and getting that glittery belt with faux-gold coins that all females seem to own, he went into his brother's closet to get a brown number from J. C. Penneys.

Sure, the kid isn't totally at the end of the Masculinity Scale, but he ain't making it into my Fabulosity Club.

Needless to say, now I'm second-guessing the whole situation. C. J.'s been finding all sorts of odd, effeminate things in the house. I was an effeminate kid growing up among heterosexuals, and I have to tell you, the pickings were slim. Unlike C. J., I never found a big pink pair of bath poufs to play cheerleader. I had to make my own pompoms out of discarded copies of Reader's Digest.

Which is probably why the whole thing strikes me as suspicious.

Anyway, I breathlessly await further chapters. Next week, will C. J. stumble upon somebody's metallic cone bra in the trash? Or will Mom continue to feminize behavior that could be perfectly male? Like, the first time C. J. tries on a bowler hat, will she scream, "Look out, Liza!" and teach him Jazz Hands?

Could You Write Country Music For a Living?

The band Rascal Flatts just released "an emotional tribute" to Caylee Anthony called "She's Going Places," and it's shooting straight up the country music charts. "Do they have some bizarre God-given musical talent?" you ask. "Did they sell their souls to Satan in exchange for superlative songwriting skills?" I say no! I say anybody can write a hit country tune, provided they know the rules:

1. Write about white people.
2. Write about America.
3. Wildly careen from happy to sad.
4. Make sure to include God!

In fact, I'll prove it to you. Set the timer: you have four minutes to write a hit country song about Caylee Anthony entitled "She's Going Places." I'm thinking Rascal Flatts probably whipped theirs out in under three minutes, but hey, they're pros.

Okay, time's up. Here's my entry:

----------

For nine long months this pretty white girl
made her plump white mommy sigh.
But then she was born and she became
the apple of her white daddy's eye.

She's going places, this pretty white girl
she's got a great future ahead.
She's going places, this pretty white girl
that's what everybody said.

Though her brain stem wasn't developed
her personality rang like an alarm.
She definitely would have waved the old red, white and blue
if she'd had muscles in her little white arm.

She's going places, this pretty white girl
she's got a great future ahead.
She's going places, this pretty white girl
that's what everybody said.

But one day she stopped tickling her Elmo;
her Barbie laid like a dead trout.
The courts couldn't decide what happened,
but maybe Nancy Grace will find out.

She's going places, this pretty white girl
she's got a great future ahead.
"She's going straight into my big white arms!"
our white male God just said.

-------------

So, whaddaya think? Thanks! Where's your song? What? You don't have little Caylee going to heaven? Look, it's called "She's Going Places" -- what'd you think, she's going to Disneyland?

Oh.

Well, you're not necessarily doomed to minimum-wage employment. Look for my forthcoming piece called, "Yo Yo Yo Could I Write A Hit Rap Song?" next time I'm in the hizzouse.

Rick Santorum and Oral Pleasure

Two seconds later somebody tweaks his nipple and he takes the whole thing in his mouth.

How hot is it? Even my boat is staying out of the freakin' water.

Arizonans Whacked By Enormous Haboobs

And they're not happy about it.

The National Weather Service has a name for particularly thick dust storms that sweep through dry, dusty states: haboobs. This year, though, the use of that term by Arizona weathermen has stirred up a storm of controversy almost as thick as the capricious haboobs.

Diane Robinson of Wickenburg, Ariz. says the state’s dust storms are far different from Middle Eastern ones. “Excuse me, Mr. Weatherman!” she cried in a letter to the editor. “Who gave you the right to use the word ‘haboob’ in describing our recent dust storm? While you may think there are similarities, don’t forget that in these parts our dust is mixed with the whoop of the Indian’s dance, the progression of the cattle herd and warning of the rattlesnake as it lifts its head to strike.”

Don Yonts, a resident of Gilbert, Ariz., hasn't read quite as many Harlequin romances. He just doesn't like Americans using Arabic words. “I am insulted that local TV news crews are now calling this kind of storm a haboob,” he wrote to The Arizona Republic. “How do they think our soldiers feel coming back to Arizona and hearing some Middle Eastern term?”

Just out of cultural sensitivity, I think we should address their concerns. It's easy enough to make up a new word that keeps the original word's feel while losing its foreignness. "Dustitties" and "sandumplings" spring to mind. I'm pretty sure our returning military men and women won't have problems with either of those. Besides, once they spot one of these massive parchachas aimed straight at their heads, I think they'll have other things to worry about.

I've been using Spotify for a week, and I think I'm ready to weigh in. I was sucked into the elitist hype and expected something really cool, but instead I think it's barely so-so. Their catalog is seriously lacking, with just one or two lame records by some important artists. (Really, nothing by Isaac Hayes over ten minutes? That makes some of his albums six minutes long. And, uh, no Led Zeppelin?) The free version has inexplicable time limits, and lots of inane commercials. And supposedly you can't listen to a song more than five times.

The program doesn't seem particularly smart, either. After I spend an hour telling it I like Camille Saint-Saens, Dinah Washington and Joy Orbison, their ads suggest I give a listen to Pitbull (featuring Enrique Iglesias).

On the plus side, it's kind of fun when they randomly interrupt the music with commercials. When Chris Brown broke in at the end of Madame Butterfly, I totally got why she wanted to stab herself.

A cartoon published today in a Rupert Murdoch newspaper is incensed about all the media coverage the Rupert Murdoch phone-tapping hearings are getting. Gosh, the Murdoch press wonders, why are people so ridiculously fixated on a tiny conspiracy that prompted the head of Scotland Yard to resign?

The cartoon, titled "Priorities...," thinks this relentless coverage is diverting attention away from more important topics, like African famine.

Really? African famine? Dudes, at least try to sound a little believable.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: chicks on the subway are nuts. A guy can't even floss his teeth in peace.

Bill Gates thinks the modern-day flush toilet isn’t good enough. Most of the developing world can’t afford to use it, and poor sanitation spreads diarrheal diseases.

So the Gates Foundation is challenging universities to build a better toilet—latrines that are hygienic, generate energy and don’t require running water or a septic system. The foundation is giving $41.5 million toward that end, and proposals include toilets powered by solar panels, heat, or microwave.

Supposedly the microwave method works pretty well but the spinning makes everybody sick.

Christ, why the fuck do ex-lesbians feel the need to share their stories? And why does the New York Times print more articles about ex-lesbians than current ones?

In Sunday's New York Times there's a miserable piece by Karen Hartman that's ostensibly about how Vermont lets any LGBT folks marry but won't let them divorce unless they live in the state. Which naturally turns Ms. Hartman's lesbian partner -- who I'm guessing at some point she must have loved, though she doesn't mention it -- into the ball and chain around her now-heterosexual leg.

With some effort, Ms. Hartman manages to break the doomed union, and she thoughtfully enumerates the happiest days of her ex-lesbian life:

1. Getting married to a wonderful man.
2. Getting a divorce from that bitch.

If you don't want to read this article -- and you shouldn't, unless you have problems with low blood pressure -- the first eighty paragraphs are about how much this heterosexual chick wants to dump the Sapphic baggage she's been saddled with and marry the answer to a woman's prayers named "Todd." You can almost picture the moms of LBGTs everywhere clutching their rosaries and squealing, "Oh, Wally, there's still hope!"

This sad sack ends her passive-aggressive brag by tossing pitiful little crumbs to all us non-reformed homos. We shouldn't be second-class citizens! she says. That's truly awful. She'd do something about, but she's busy getting boned by a real man.

Take comfort in knowing she's still on our side, though she's probably picking out china patterns as we speak:

At long last, same-sex couples across New York are picking out china and calling the caterers, preparing to plight their troths as soon as next Sunday. I am grateful, relieved and, yes, even a tiny bit proud to be just another hasbian with a husband, cheering them on.

What a great piece. What an interesting woman. And I'll cheer her on, too, even though I'm an ex-asshole.

Oh, for fuck's sake. You call that a deal? Gordon Ramsay's restaurants are failing just slightly faster than firebombed Yugos, and you're offering this miserable excuse for a meal for sixty-five bucks?

"Caper and shallot dressing. "Dressed rocket." Does dinner come in a cruet? Are plates prohibitively expensive on your side of the pond? If I bring a doctor's note saying I have teeth will you bring me some solid food?

And Cornish potatoes. Yum. As everyone knows, the potatoes from Corn are absolutely -- no, wait, I guess nobody knows what the fuck they are.

But Jesus, "Lyme Bay." What is that, a hospital for people who have been bitten by ticks? For fuck's sake. I don't want my plaice coming from there, whatever the fuck plaice is. And "line-caught." What was the line -- "Well, you're an ugly fish, but I'll fuck you"? What a load of bollocks.

Oh, like white folks aren't insulted by that "Ward, I'm worried about the Beaver" thing.

Health and environmental groups have mounted a campaign against Bath & Body Works, urging the retailer to stop selling its line of “Summertime Scent” soaps that contain triclosan, a chemical categorized as a pesticide.

Scientific studies have linked triclosan to hormone disruption, which could be hazardous to teenagers whose bodies are still developing.

Adios, Cucumber Eunuch and Undescended Tangerine.

Today in Extras Casting: Law and Order SVU

Lawyers wear business suits, female cops have short hair, gay dudes move around on bars in their underwear, drug addicts have beards.

Articles That Shouldn't Be Next To Each Other

Today in The New York Post:

When you realize you’re finally getting married after eight years of waiting, you kind of want to share the news with everybody — even Prince William.

New Yorkers Bill White and Bryan Eure mentioned their upcoming nuptials to his royal highness at a veterans event in Los Angeles this month. After William offered an, “Oh, that’s terrific. Congratulations!” the couple asked if he might share any wedding tips. “He said, ‘If you just make sure one person is the final decision-maker, and you’re OK with that, you’ll be all right,’ ” says White.

Princely advice aside, Eure describes the wedding-planning process as “a team effort — I dream it up, and Billy makes it happen!”

White, the former president of the Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum who now heads the Constellations Group strategic consulting firm, and Eure, who works in commercial insurance, describe their wedding style as conservative, classy and tasteful.

Oh, and big.

In addition to a small church ceremony at St. Bartholomew’s and a wedding-eve reception at GOP fund-raiser Georgette Mosbacher’s Fifth Avenue home, the couple expects a jaw-dropping 600 guests at their September celebration at the Four Seasons — the first same-sex wedding in the restaurant’s history. The guest list includes three former presidents (George W. Bush, Bill Clinton and George H.W. Bush), two New York governors (Andrew Cuomo and David Paterson), multiple media luminaries (Barbara Walters, Anderson Cooper, Bob Pittman), a secretary of state (Hillary Clinton), two four-star generals (David Petraeus and James Amos), and prominent attorney David Boies, who will serve as best man.

And what’s in store for all those boldface names?

“A tremendous, very masculine party. It’s going to be one of the most exciting events the Four Seasons has ever done,” says restaurant co-owner Julian Niccolini, who hinted at a floating wedding cake bobbing in the pool and a performance by the New York Pops orchestra.

From May 20, 2010 The Wall Street Journal:

Bill White, the president of the Intrepid Sea, Air & Space Museum resigned Wednesday, one year after the New York State Attorney General began investigating him as part of a widespread probe into financial marketing firms operating without proper licenses.

In May 2009, Mr. White was subpoenaed by New York State Attorney General Andrew M. Cuomo after he was found to have been operating as an unlicensed placement agent, a position marketing financial investments to pension funds. Bill White & Associates allegedly received a $2 million fee from City Investment Fund L.P., a real estate investment fund co-sponsored by real estate company Fisher Brothers that received pension fund business. A spokesman for the attorney general's office confirmed that Mr. White had been subpoenaed, but declined to comment further on an ongoing investigation.

Ridiculous Atheists Claim Apparition on Wal-Mart Receipt Looks Nothing Like Photo of Jesus

Police in southern Sweden have a new tool for fighting sex crimes: a dog named Rapports Opus that is trained to detect the presence of sperm. According to English-language newspaper The Local, police in the town of Karlskrona arrested a 23-year-old man and charged him with rape after Rapports Opus was taken to a park where a woman was sexually assaulted. The dog found traces of semen and after being sent for analysis it was found to match the 23-year-old's DNA.

Oh, Christ. And I thought regular dogs always sniffed my ass.

Artist's Renderings Vs. Reality

The lobby boasts recycled wood flooring cut from timber beams, an abstract mural of sewing machines and stitching patterns and a quirky display of salvaged sewing machines and vintage office equipment. -- Architect



The lobby boasts cavernous holes in the ceiling that have been plugged with Spackle and left unpainted. Old typewriters and adding machines sit on paint-spattered shelves. A mess of 2x4s hold up this chintzy mail thing with a faux-bronze finish, and though the structure is open somehow whoever built it couldn't figure out how to paint behind it. -- Reality

I don't want to unfairly pigeonhole an entire race, but Christ, Chinese people eat like Mexicans.

Ship Any Car

You know, it's nice that Yelp filters out questionable reviews, because there are some unscrupulous business owners out there. They post rave reviews about their own businesses to trick potential customers into patronizing them. Unfortunately, some of these business owners are just a little too prolific, and Yelp has a hard time keeping up.

There's obviously something wrong with Ship Any Car, LLC. The Fort Lee, NJ company has been been reviewed on Yelp 146 times. Something like three reviews give the company one star and include a word like "BEWARE!" And all the rest give the company five stars, most posted by an anonymous someone who's never rated another company.

Yelp seemed to catch on, deleting 72 reviews for violating their Content Guidelines or Terms of Service, and filtering 71 additional reviews for being questionable. For instance, Fred T. has used twelve other branches of Ship Any Car, in Los Angeles, Manhattan, Atlanta, Seattle, Detroit, Oakland, Las Vegas, Washington DC, Philadelphia, Tampa, Miami, Newport Beach, and Fort Lee, NJ. He gives five stars and the exact same review to all. Monta G. has used seven branches. She gives five stars and the exact same review to all. Matt L. has used six, Mary S. has used five, Kevin B has used two. All award each branch five stars and offer the exact same review. Which seems a little suspicious because, for example, Jamie W. used the services of five different branches and apparently had a driver named Ernest at all five.

The bored blogger might notice themes running through the reviews. (The quotes are edited for brevity.)


Have any of the reviewers misspelled their own names?

Micheal Z. five-star review 6-21-11
Micheal C. five-star review 6-13-11
Micheal S. five-star review 5-31-11
Micheal Z. five-star review 5-26-11
Micheal R. five-star review 5-23-11
Micheal Z. five-star review 5-20-11
Micheal B. five-star review 5-17-11
Micheal B. five-star review 4-12-11


Do any of the reviewers have similar names?

Doug W. five-star review 6-28-11
Douglas W. five-star review 5-24-11
Douglas W. five-star review 5-23-11
Douglas W. five-star review 5-18-11
Doug W. five-star review 5-16-11
Douglas W. five-star review 4-26-11
Douglas W. five-star review 4-26-11
Douglas W. five-star review 4-12-11


What phone number should I call, and who answers?

Karen M. "The 1-888-333-3141 number got Mike the Manager on the phone"

Kristi L. "call the 1-888-333-3141 number a manager will take care of you"

Marge S. "1-888-333-3141 got me a manager on the phone"

Susan A. "I dialed the 1-888-275-6161 number it got a manager on the phone"

Magia B. "1-888-333-3141 gets their managers on the phone"

Bobby B. "the 1-888-333-3141 number seems to get their managers online"

Douglas W. "The 1-888-333-3141 seems to get a manager on the phone"

Jason T. "1-888-333-3141 seemed to get Jesus himself on the phone"

Mark M. "1 888 333 3141 was a answer from GOD"

Dan R. "1-888-333-3141 was a answer from god"

Kevin B. "The 1-888-333-3141 number was a prayer answered by god"

Ginger S. "1-888-275-6161 was a call to GOD"


Really? God?

Mack J. "Highest Praises Belong to Ship Any Car"

Robert W. "Their Service has been a blessing"

Jack W. "I could not even pray for a better service."

Jason T. "Praise the lord for ship any car"

Mary S. "thank God for Ship Any Car, Many Blessings to them."

Horatio S. "Thank GOD for ship any car, I was bless to find them"

Autumn B. "thank GOD for them."


Does nobody there have Spell Check?

Greg D. "Being in the millitary this means alot to me"

Autumn B. "They do alot of shipping in the local millitary community"

Greg M. "Being in the millitary and having to move all the sucks, but ship any car made it a great experience"

Jason S. "They transported my cars all the time when I was in the millitary too."

Mary S. "I called this number 1-888-333-3141 and got a millitary discount."

Tony V. Deffinatly recomend you guys"

Horatio S. "they will definately take care of your car and houshold furniture."

Myers L. "You can definately count on this company"

Annie J. "there aren't that many honest moving companies but they are definately one of them."

Mark W. "any one in the millitary should use their serviced definately."


Yelp should be applauded for their diligence in filtering questionable reviews, but can they keep up? The Fort Lee, NJ branch of Ship Any Car currently has a three-and-a-half star rating, based on one negative review and two new positive ones.

Carly C. gives them one star, saying, "DO NOT USE THIS COMPANY!!! I can not say it enough. The BBB rating is D+. I wish I had looked them up before booking."

Mary W. gives them five stars. And another five stars to the branch in Philadelphia.

John K. gives them five stars. He says they're a "Super Good Company" and he'll call them the next time he moves. Definately.


Ship Any Car LLC
158 Linwood Plaza
Fort Lee, NJ 07024
www.shipanycar.com
(888) 333-3141

Please Sign a Petition Telling Change.Org Not To Send You All Sorts of Spam After You Sign A Petition

We sign one crummy online petition, and all kinds of shit hits the fan. Now, suddenly, we've got yet another unwanted online account -- with a computer-generated password like ayqucfxtj -- and on our unwanted "profile" ten little boxes are checked:


Really, "Action Alerts"? You think because we signed something saying Joe was the cutest Jonas Brother we want to hear about kids in Africa who need shoes?

Well, we're not going to take it! Tell Change.org they've pushed us too far. Please sign this petition telling them not to send you all sorts of crummy email after you sign this petition.

Show these people who think petitions can actually change things that petitions can actually change things. And heartfelt thanks from somebody who's learned his lesson and is never signing anything again.

This morning I noticed everyone attractive had left Manhattan for the summer, so I thought it'd be a fine time to see the Alexander McQueen show. Sadly, it wasn't. There were eight thousand unattractive people in line, not one with sleeves or long pants. Really, if we hadn't been in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, you'd have thought they were waiting to ride the Zipper at the carnival in a church parking lot. These were fashionistas? I didn't get it. I mean, you don't munch on Cheetos while you're waiting for your table at Le Cirque.

The clothes were gorgeous from far away, but a real disappointment up close. From a distance they're gorgeous, and scary, and bizarre. A few steps closer and you can see the eight million little stitches that made some sweet old French lady go blind. You wonder why. You imagine conversation with a regular woman as opposed to one in McQueen:

REGULAR WOMAN: I work for a company that facilitates funding for low-cost housing.

WOMAN IN MCQUEEN: It's Alexander McQueen. Isn't it fabulous? It's made of taffeta, fox fur, and pharmaceutial waste.

Aside from being freaky small, the clothes weren't as bizarre as the tabloids tell it: take the Mohawks and S&M masks off the mannequins and you've got something Reese Witherspoon would wear. And as for the music, well, John Williams? Really? Isn't he pretty much the opposite of Alexander McQ? It's pitiful how the Met panders to the lowest common denominator. If the clothes are too strange for you, well, here's a tune by the guy who wrote the music for E. T.

I tried to understand the clothing, but I fell sadly short. If you want to do art, do art. Don't glue it on top of a barn and pretend it's useful now that it's a weather vane. And I realized something that I think every man gets at some point in his life: I don't care if it's ironic, laconic, sarcastic or sardonic, if you're wearing a dress with a bustle you're an idiot. Really, these things were to clothes like The Ace of Cake's works are to food. I'll certainly applaud that giant frog covered in frosting that you bring to my birthday party, but when I cut into it and discover it's all plywood and PVC pipe I'm going to put you atop a real cake and set your ass on fire.

Darwin Working His Butt Off At Baseball Stadiums

I would have just headlined it "Gay Couples Avoid Asshole," but that's why I've got a blog.

Trailer découpage? What a fag.

Here's a sneak peak at a guest room in the Miami outpost of Lords, America's first gay hotel chain.

Which is lucky, because I wouldn't set foot in here unless somebody pushed my face into a pillow.

Bear City 2 Casting Call

I enjoyed being background on Men in Black III, so I signed up with some casting agencies. Got a particularly sexy call today:

BEARCITY 2

Director: Doug Langway
Writers: Doug Langway & Lawrence Ferber
Distributor: TLA Releasing
Location: Provincetown, MA & NYC

Synopsis: BearCity 2 is a hirsute "Sex and the City," following the funny, romantic, and occasionally dramatic adventures of our familiar characters, a group of bears and cubs in New York City. Tyler and Roger live as boyfriends in Roger's very plush penthouse in the trendy meat packing district. Roger has settled firmly into domestic life while Tyler, now 23, is getting a little . . . restless.

Michael, our big mama bear, has become a sought-after "heavyweight" Broadway producer and has invested his earnings in his hot, Latino boyfriend, Carlos' dream of opening a gay-sports bar in Manhattan. With Michael and Carlos both wrapped up in their careers they are unable to see that the technology they count on to stay "in-touch" is tearing them apart.

Our beloved Brent and Fred find themselves at opposite ends of the Bear Pride spectrum. Fred is excited about the chance to shoot a bear documentary, while Brent has had his fill of woofs, stuffed bears and flannel shirts. Can this documentary be the key to bringing this couple closer or will Fred's reluctance to commit finally push Brent away?

When Roger pops the question, and a reluctant Tyler accepts, the gang is thrust into a wild ride towards a wedding ceremony at the closing of Bear Week in Provincetown, MA. Can these couples hold their relationship together with 3,000 bears, a foam party and a few ex-boyfriends standing in the way? Or will true love prevail at a beach wedding in one of the most romantic and magical towns on earth?

RECURRING CAST: ROGER, TYLER, FRED, BRENT, MICHAEL, CARLOS, SIMON, RANDY, TED, MELVIN

SEEKING:

[ GABRIEL HALL ]
(mid 50s-mid 60s) Tyler's Dad. Heavy-set, hairy, well-dressed, silver-haired, proud military man. A creative thinker, realist and leader. Anyone is an equal to him as long as they are on his level. As an entrepreneur, he is a hard worker. He has come to Provincetown for Tyler's wedding.

[ NATHANIEL REED ]
(Early 40s) In shape, stunningly handsome, hairy man who oozes masculinity. He now lives in Provincetown and runs the Dune Tours. He has an image and certain swagger to uphold and expects everyone to look up to him. Deep down he wants to find the love of his life but is scared of being vulnerable. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ BIG DAN ]
(late 30s-early 40s) A big, beefy, "bear". Very masculine, ex-football player type. He has a tough exterior (probably from growing up gay in the Midwest), but a warm heart. He is reserved and respectful, looking for a lost love but always ends up getting screwed over by the young 20-somethings he falls for. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ RYNO ]
(late 30s) Caucasian, heavy, hairy, masculine. Probably grew up in the south, played linebacker (which is where the football nickname "Ryno" came from.) He is in a triad marriage to both Billy and Dean. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ BILLY ]
(early 30s) SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES. A very heavy bear. He is a "go with the flow" guy who is getting the best of both worlds in his relationship with Ryno and Dean. He is into sports and the outdoors. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ DEAN ]
(late 20s) African American. Muscular bear. He isn't afraid to stand up to people and push their buttons. A bit aggressive and is attracted to very big guys. He is newer to the marriage triad with Billy and Ryno. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ REGGIE ]
(early 30s) Fred's ex-boyfriend. A well-built hipster cub/bear. He is passive aggressive and can be a bit of a jerk. He is now married to Don who apparently has become Fred's replacement.

[ DON ]
(early 30s) SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES. Well-built muscle bear. Very cute. Reggie's husband who is introduced to Fred.

[ SAM ]
(early 40s) SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES. Very attractive muscle bear. Officiate at the wedding of Roger and Tyler. [Ed. note: Because God forbid an ugly man marries them.]

[ GARY ]
(mid 40s) A shorter, thinner man with a goatee. Married to Cole for many years. We see them walking hand in hand when approached to talk about their relationship for the Bear documentary.

[ COLE ]
(late 40s) Stocky man. Maybe salt/pepper beard look. Married to Gary for many years. They are adorable together. When approached to tell the story of their relationship for the documentary, Gary is reluctant to talk about it, but Gary convinces him. [Ed. note: Gary might be schizophrenic too.]

[ KEN ]
(mid 30s- 40s) Caucasian. A salty, angular, mega-hairy guy who runs a private whale watching tour company with his partner, Jake. They take Brent and Fred out on a tour. NUDITY: Shirtless, Rear

Dear Writers:

Here's a free line of dialog.

MISC. GAY MAN: I won't say Ken has a one track mind, but when we had sex he kept yelling, "Thar she blows!"

You're welcome.
RomanHans

[ JACK ]
(mid 30s) A huge, muscle bear. He is at Roger's bachelor party at the beach and congratulates him on his upcoming marriage. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ CHEF ]
SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES. The pizza chef at Carlos' new bar.

[ JAMES ]
(20s) Latino. Hot muscle bear. A new waiter at Carlos' bar who serves the crew on opening night.

[ MASSEUR ]
(40s) SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES. Gives Fred his massage at Tyler's spa day and there is a bit of a misunderstanding.

[ ROLF ]
(late 30s-40s) A large framed, hairy, linebacker type. Intimidating in a good way. He is Tyler's masseur.

[ PAT/DAVE/STEVE ]
SUBMIT ALL ETHNICITIES. All very heavy-set bears. Guys that Carlos met online through "Growlr" site. NUDITY: Shirtless

[ JOHN ]
(40s) Big, burly man. He is a pastry chef who Tyler is interested in.

[ JAKE ]
(mid 30s) African American. Hairy, muscle bear. He runs a private whale watching tour company with Ken. NUDITY: Shirtless, Rear

Great. Eighteen dudes and one miserable ass. It'll be just like watching 60 Minutes.

Anyway, if anybody's interested, drop me a note and I'll forward the details. Maybe send me a photo, too. I don't want to bother these people for nothing.

Mel Gibson is totally supportive of his gay brother.

Years ago Andrew Gibson told Mel about his sexual orientation. "I was at a family dinner at Aria restaurant," Andrew said, "when I told Mel. He just said, 'It's not my choice, but I love you and you're my brother."

Wow, what a great bro. Andrew is coming out to Mel, and Mel makes it all about him. God, imagine what family emergencies must be like:

ANDREW: AIEEE! I got my hand stuck in the garbage disposal!

MEL: Well, mine is doing good.

"Not my choice," Mel says. Yeah, sometimes I wonder why I went for it. Maybe they were out of hetero.

Anyway, while we're choosing, who wants unbalanced, alcoholic, homophobic anti-Semite? Hey, Mel, sit back down for a second. Leave a little for somebody else.

Dear Hint:

Thanks! I totally thought it was recent, because I saw a whole bunch of airline baggage handlers dressed like Bing Crosby just the other day. Hmm, 1956. Is it Eleanor Roosevelt? The Cuban Missile Crisis? How the fuck is "1956" going to help? Wait: is this a photo of my grandparents fucking?


Oh, yes! What an idiot I am not to piece together a mental timeline for everything I own. Just think: back in my parents were young, peanut butter and jelly probably came in separate jars. Oh, the humanity! And I hear potato chips didn't even come in a can.

No, this email has totally turned my life around. I'm going to spend the rest of the day looking at everything I have and dwelling on how lucky I am to have it. In fact, first I'm going to go toss my plasma TV into a rose-petal strewn bubble bath, and then I'm going to masturbate grandpa. Thanks for sharing, email pal!

The pleasure is all mine, 'holes.

As you might know, I'm a huge fan of everything Japanese, so naturally I keep up with their cultural trends. Lately I've been hearing about something called "panchira," which evidently means "panty flash." This is when somebody is in a short skirt and for some reason they accidentally offer bystanders a quick view of their underwear. Apparently there's something about the unintentional nature of this display that underscores the innocence of the flasher, making them seem more attractive and the act of voyeurism more forbidden. Panchira can be seen in Japanese TV, movies, and advertisements, but particularly in anime.

As a writer and as a man, this trend fascinated me. What an odd turn-on! How strange and yet -- I'll admit it -- so unexpectedly hot. Ever since I first heard about it, I couldn't stop imagining these scenes in my head, and eventually I decided to immortalize some of the most erotic in ceramic figurines.

The tennis player has always been an object of sexual desire. Their athleticism, their grace, their animalistic sweat. What could be hotter than if one accidentally lost their glasses and, while retrieving them, gave us a quick glimpse of their underthings?


Mr. Takahashi has forgotten to put his pants on. He's an excellent businessman, but he has that forthcoming merger on his mind. He is our boss, and if he caught us admiring his Munsingwear he'd surely fire us. Still, we can't resist that forbidden glance.


I don't know anyone who hasn't masturbated to the thought of a businessman in a schoolgirl's outfit. Here I think I've nicely captured Mr. Morimoto being surprised by an unexpected gust of wind. Somebody's been working out.


Drunks have always been erotic, because their helplessness evokes the suppressed desire for domination within ourselves. Takiyo Muriyama has had one too many sakes after a hard day at work, and doesn't realize his Jockeys are exposed for the world to see. He's clearly beyond caring: can we look without shame? Or can we, perhaps, move next to him and hike up his skirt just an inch or two more?

Celebrities including Tom Cruise are reportedly investing in soundproofed bedrooms where they can snore in peace without disturbing their spouses.

Cruise, 49, has reportedly converted a guest bedroom into such a refuge at his palatial Beverly Hills home.

Shortly after the actor married Katie Holmes, it was reported that they sometimes slept in different rooms because of his snoring.

Sigh. That Katie Holmes is sooo understanding. Still, I hope she insists that Tom wear a "Breathe Right Strip" on his "nose" when he "sleeps" in the other room.

Okay, Mickey, you get under the hose now.

Oh. Sorry. I actually meant, "Under the showerhead."

Really? Do we need to tell people who just got married that they're the same sex as their spouse? Call me crazy, but I'm pretty sure they know. They don't really need an announcement from you recapping what they did. They didn't exactly look under the covers on their wedding night and say, "Holy God, what the fuck is that?"

Meanwhile, what do giraffes have to do with same-sex marriage? Are they all gay? Or are they the only animals that exist in that middle ground between butch and effeminate? You know, they're not bears or panthers, but they're also not flamingos or poodles. Yeah, they're the gay equivalent of the animal world.

All this adds up to a simple fact: I'm not going to open this asshole card. Because what's the message inside going to be? "These giraffes are messed up and so are you"? "These small-dicked creatures can't tell who's male and who's female. Is that your excuse?"

Anyway, I'm not planning on getting same-sex married, but if I do, don't send me this card. Because I would send you a note back that says this:

Thank you for the card. All my best to your moderately attractive family.

Still, I breathlessly await these additions to the Painfully Obvious line of greeting cards:

Get Well Soon From That Affliction That You've Got

and

Congrats On The New Baby That Came Out Of Your Uterus

What that mysterious smile? Because when you touch her skin it sounds like she farts.

Allez tout suite, le Batman! Un maitre d' at le Chat Noire Cafe has forgotten to put on le deodorant.

Being a gay man, obviously I'm a fan of musical theatre, so I'd like to take a moment today to salute the absolute best: Rodgers and Hammerstein. Rather than describing their magic, though, let's leap straight into a classic ditty from their magnum opus South Pacific. In "Bloody Mary," a troop of hunky young Seabees explain their feelings for a chubby Polynesian:

Bloody Mary is the girl I love.
Bloody Mary is the girl I love.
Bloody Mary is the girl I love.
Now ain't that too damn bad!

Isn't that astonishing for a first verse? It's got great repetition, so you can go to the bathroom or bake a cake and not have to worry about missing anything. And get the subtlety. You can almost picture Rodgers and Hammerstein arguing it out:

RODGERS: I've got it! We'll close it with "Now ain't that too damn bad!"

HAMMERSTEIN: [SHAKES HIS HEAD] No, I'm still partial to "And who gives a fuck what you think?"

The second verse takes us to unexpected places:

Her skin is tender as Dimaggio's glove.
Her skin is tender as Dimaggio's glove.
Her skin is tender as Dimaggio's glove.
Now ain't that too damn bad!

Got that? This verse wisely reiterates the structure and repetition of the first verse, but deepens our understanding of these butch sailors in World War II by illustrating their love of imagery. I'm sure this is a positively brilliant comparison, and one day soon a theatergoer will figure out exactly who this "Dimaggio" is.

Bloody Mary's chewin' betel nuts.
She is always chewin' betel nuts.
Bloody Mary's chewin' betel nuts.
And she don't use Pepsodent!
Now ain't that too damn bad!

Sadly, this verse kind of loses me. I'm not sure what chewing betel nuts says about a character. At the risk of sounding bold, R&H might have chosen a description that is a bit more meaningful, like "Bloody Mary has a hamster named Sam," or "Bloody Mary wears extra-large Spanx."

I don't think I need to explain the reference to Pepsodent other than noting I wrote a story praising Kelloggs once and two weeks later somebody sent me a Pop Tart in the mail.

Anyway, after examining the brilliance of this work, I'm sure you're a fan of musical theatre now too. Keep an eye out for South Pacific. And look for my forthcoming musical, Stonewall!, which tips its hat to R&H with the showstopper, "Harvey Starts His Day With Count Chocula."

Of course you've all heard the great news out of New York. After many years of focus, dedication, and hard work, we've achieved a historic goal.

Though the temptation now may be to rest on our laurels, I firmly believe that we should use our powerful forward momentum to propel us towards the next hurdle:

Forcing children to marry animals.

While the temptation is clearly to congratulate ourselves and smugly smile at those who fought us, this is not the stance to take at this time. And I believe that all the tireless gay activists who worked toward the marriage milestone probably feel the same way I do:

Like a power-mad homosexual who wants to foist another item on his perverted agenda onto a helpless America.

Now that the rule has become law, I think we can admit that the Republicans were absolutely right in saying that gay marriage is the first step on a slippery slope. Sadly for them, they couldn't stop us from taking that step, and now society has slid down almost all the way to requiring every new parent to name their child after a character on The Golden Girls.

Clearly forcing children to marry animals is within our grasp.

I believe that with a few simple steps we could achieve our goal. First, we need to convince children that they want to marry their pets. We should sow the seeds early by preying on their thoughts of insecurity.

"Do you like little Fluffy?" our teacher/indoctrinators will ask their kindergarten wards. "Wouldn't you feel bad if Fluffy thought you didn't love her, and she ran away with the circus?"

By the 4th grade, we can appeal to the child's first forays into intelligent thought. At this age they probably prefer pets to the opposite sex, so we need to convince them that this feeling will never change.

You love your puppy, right?" the 4th grade teacher will ask. "If you marry him, it guarantees you'll love him forever. Unless you think marriage doesn't mean anything, and your daddy can suddenly decide he wants to go live with some whore down the street."

By the 7th grade, we should aim squarely at the materialistic child's needs. "Sure, maybe you don't want to marry a hamster," the teacher will say. "But how about if you got to wear a pretty dress and people gave you eighteen toasters?"

I'm convinced that anyone who can get marriage equality in New York can easily get a few harmless lessons added to the school curriculum, and by 2014 marriage announcements in the newspaper will look like a Future Farmer of America convention.

Next on the agenda, after this? Well, I'll give you a hint: when a young woman walks down that aisle with her father, he's not going to be giving her away.

Business Advice From British Airways

Glenn Beck went to Bryant Park Monday night for a showing of Alfred Hitchcock's The 39 Steps. But that was not the only showing he saw.

"It was a hostile situation," Beck described of his family's movie night; his wife, Tanya, had wine "kicked intentionally on to her back," leaving her "completely wet," he said on his radio show Tuesday morning. He further said that his wife and daughter were greeted by a man pointing his fingers and yelling "We hate conservatives here!" when they got up to use the restroom.

Dear Mr. Beck:

I am sincerely sorry about the horrible incident Monday night. The behavior of a few assorted liberals was inexcusable.

I know Republicans value bullying as an important method to curb unwanted behavior, so the crowd should have gone much further than one measly little comment and a little bit of spilled Merlot.

I am sorry that everyone totally ignored your massive white heft, your nonexistent chin, and your little piggy eyes. I sit here unable to believe that when you appeared the entire crowd didn't oink.

Please forgive those pitiful liberals for not spreading mustard on your leg, pretending to mistake it for a ham hock. And it was surely an oversight that nobody pretended that your pasty chubbiness was a giant sausage and attempted to wrest you onto their barbecue grill.

At the very least, somebody could at least have pushed your face into some potato salad saying you're so cold and sour they thought you were a pickle. Had I been there, I'd definitely have pointed at your hair and asked for details about the next Lesbian Nun Convention. And I regret that nobody said you cry so much they thought the film was Three Men and a Baby.

But no. So many learning opportunities lost. Well, once again, my sincere apologies. And I hope to see you at next week's film.

RomanHans

There is no demographic group in the nation, among all the racial and ethnic affiliations, which ever features nudity, half-nudity and simulated sex acts in their parades. -- Catholic League President Bill Donahue on gay people

Dear Mr. Donahue:

Here's footage of Brooklyn's West Indian American Parade:



Next time you speak publicly, please generalize about all black people from it.

Thanks very much,
RomanHans

Every day there's another anguished letter in the newspaper. "What am I supposed to tell my children when they find out Heather has two mommies?" "How do I explain to my kids that Mike next door is now Mitzi?"

What am I supposed to tell my children about all these people wondering what to tell their children? How do I break it to them that some parents are morons?

I mean, I don't care if parents are utterly clueness in their privacy of their own homes. But when they're clueless in public, well, it's time to draw the line. It causes problems within my own family, which clearly means they have to stop. It would be thoughtless and irresponsible of them to continue questioning parental wisdom where impressionable children may witness it.

Indeed, the damage has already been done to my little Holden. "What's up with all the mommys and daddys who don't know what to tell their kids?" he asked me as I tucked him in last night. "Are you not going to know what to tell me next?"

I swear, I had to wipe away a tear when I heard this. He's never doubted his father's infallibility before.

Later, as I drank scotch and watched porn, I pondered the matter. I didn't know if I should tell little Holden that parents get confused sometimes, or that these folks are obviously idiots to write to a newspaper for advice, because professional family counselors would clearly offer more insight than the folks who bring us Hagar the Horrible. But mostly I felt angry that I'd been forced to explain something to someone.

In the end, I think the solution is obvious. Any behavior that makes us wonder what to tell our children needs to be curbed immediately, even if that behavior is writing letters wondering what to tell our children. As for those questions, hell, "Why is Uncle Al wearing makeup?" was a walk in the park next to "Why do some daddys put their thingies in women?", but maybe some parents have a lot of explaining to do and absolutely no time to think.

Really? Really? What, does he transform into a corset before he goes to work?

Love is the opening door
Love is what we came here for
No one could offer you more
Do you know what I mean?
Have your eyes really seen?
I never really liked this song by Elton John, but it's my own fault. I have a hard time accepting the hard-won wisdom of a gay man in rhinestone clown glasses and hair transplants who was married to a chick and fucked anything that moved.

Sorry, I digress. Have my eyes really seen what, Elton? Your collection of bleached chinchilla chubbies?

For some reason, Marianne Faithfull offers us a new version of this song on her new record Horses and High Heels. I don't know why. This isn't 1979. Maybe the rights to Lay Down (Candles in the Rain) were taken. But its uselessness pretty much sums up my feelings about Ms. Faithfull's whole record, which just got a rave from the New York Daily News. Such a talent, and so completely over. You want to call your grandma and thank her for just baking cookies rather than recording a world-weary version of Brand New Key.

As for the backing band, why, I'd recognize that balding whiteness anywhere. I've enjoyed these guys ever since they played old Lynyrd Skynyrd songs in somebody's garage in that Cialis commercial. Great work, guys. Every note's a gem. Now put down your instruments and high-five: Looks like Brad's got an erection, and there's not a moment to waste.

I am the world's biggest fan of The Killing, so it pisses me off that haters are talking smack about the season finale. Let's just say people thought we'd find out who killed Rosie, and it's not clear that we do. "Look, dudes," I want to say to them, "it's not about the destination. It's the journey. It's the journey that counts."

Sure, some of them say, "Well then, Roman, why do you drive ninety miles an hour on the way to Vegas?" but they're talking to the hand by then.

I got hooked from the first minute of the show's debut. We get to see lots of killing on TV, but this is the first show that really dwells on the question, "Hey, how do parents act when one of their kids is dead?" See, there are lots of questions I want to see answered. "What does Scott Caan look like naked?" is one. "Do blond guys' pubes look like Nilla wafers?" is another. But somehow The Killing's omniscient producers knew, "How hard do people cry when they're picking out their kids' coffins?" would be Number One on my list.

I watched breathlessly as the story unfolded in a dramatic arc. Check out the sheer artistry in TV Guide's summaries of the first five episodes:

WEEK ONE: Rosie Larsen is murdered.

WEEK TWO: Detectives learn that before she was murdered Rosie went to the prom.

WEEK THREE: Detectives learn that before she went to the prom Rosie met with friends.

WEEK FOUR: Detectives learn that before she met with friends Rosie got a McFlurry at McDonalds.

WEEK FIVE: Detectives learn that before she had her McFlurry Rosie suspected she had oily hair.

Is that incredible? I hear the show has so transfixed the nation that there's going to be a spinoff called Six Things A Seattle Teen Did Yesterday. Thank God TV crime shows don't actually give you clues any more, like they did when our parents were young. On something called Ellery Queen, according to my grandpa, the dude playing Ellery actually stopped the show and said, "Hey, kids, now we've given you all the clues. Can you solve the mystery?"

"Are you kidding?" I wonder. "Who's got the attention span?" Hell, I can barely pay attention through the latest spate of detective shows where folks look at stuff through microscopes until somebody confesses. It's why I loved the show Lost: those producers knew nobody gave a fuck about a story as long as, like, invisible toucans tore fat guys apart.

Anyway, we still don't know who killed Rosie, and I for one don't give a damn. I don't care that this carrot is on a half-mile-long stick: I know we're in for a long, fun ride, and fingers crossed our path will circle by another couple interesting questions:

Was Rosie any good at Sudoku?
and
How upset do parents get when they're forced to partner with their deceased offspring in a three-legged race?

The difference between red state and blue state Wal-Marts is actually a little hard to spot.

People keep asking me, "Roman, what's up with Dr. Phil's sons? Jay married a Playboy centerfold who, photographed next to her identical triplet sisters wearing just high heels, looked like an incestuous lesbian, and Jordan is apparently dating that Playmate who moved in with Hugh Hefner two weeks after she met him and nearly fucked her way to a fortune."

Speaking personally, I think these kids are to be admired, and though I'm not really a Dr. Phil fan I have to give him his props. Obviously it's his strong moral code that led him to raise sons who wisely have to see their cows naked before they even think about buying milk.

Obviously the young Christian apples don't fall far from the family-values tree. I mean, Dr. Phil is the guy whose wife sits and watches him while he's at work, patiently waiting for him to finish. She smiles blankly until finally he walks over, grasps her arm and helps her brittle female bones get home. That's chivalry for you! Heck, the only way Mrs. Phil could be more traditional is if she accused a nearby Latino of stealing her jewelry.

When it comes down to it, Playboy pretty much represents the average American man. It exists solely for sex, though it's interested in sports and dirty jokes too, and it had its first fling with a black chick in the 1970s. While Playmates might just seem like sex objects, they have a lot more to offer. Jay's wife Erica Dahm, for instance, is an actress who's appeared in a Pauly Shore film. I haven't seen it, but I'm guessing she looked just swell in her swimsuit. Jordan's girlfriend can look pretty naked and play the guitar, so fuck you, Paul Simon!

In the end, I applaud Dr. Phil's sons for clinging steadfastly to their family values and coupling with Playboy Playmates. Let's face it: Playboy Playmates are America. They wouldn't even think about screwing people if there just weren't so much goddamn cash involved.

Well, I am just furious. This is ridiculous, like America has turned into a dictatorship. The California Coastal Commission won't let self-described environmentalist and U2 guitarist The Edge bulldoze a bunch of mountains in Malibu to build a gated compound picturesquely named Leaves In The Wind.

I mean, I understand it when they don't let Chevron drill in unspoiled Alaskan wilderness. I get it when they don't let Dow Chemicals dump a bunch of crap into the Mississippi River. But this is an AVOWED ENVIRONMENTALIST who wants to flatten these mountaintops. Surely they can cut him some slack! Why, after he's built his five mansions, each ranging up to 13,000 square feet in size, I'll pretty sure he'll recycle. Maybe he'll paint all the mansions with eco-friendly paint. Maybe he'll even plant native shrubbery around the Olympic-sized infinity pool.

Hell, even the Santa Monica Mountain Conservancy says this project is -- well, they don't say anything, actually, because they stopped saying negative stuff after The Edge promised to give them a million dollars. But if they could speak, I'll bet they'd say it's an architectural tour de force, or at least that the fence around it might not be electrified.

Rather than turning down this proposal, the Coastal Commission should jump at it. I mean, they say flattening a bunch of mountains would destroy the natural habitat of all sorts of animals, including deer, raccoons, and coyotes. But where do they get that information? I'll bet those critters are probably exhausted from always walking on a slant. I'll bet they'll love being able to walk on level ground for a change. I think after construction is completed they'll see tons of happy mountain lions relaxing on the grounds as if to say, "Thank you! Shit, my legs were fuckin' killing me."

Aside from providing much-needed housing for a dude with only eight other estates, think of what a great teaching opportunity this could be. When the people of Malibu look up at this fabulous development where the mountaintops used to be, maybe they'll see The Edge in one of his 4,000-square-foot kitchens rinsing and reusing Ziploc bags, and they'll say, "Wow, that The Edge really is a great role model for us all." And then maybe some of them will be inspired to flatten their own mountaintops and build eighty-seven bathroom palaces with Dr. Bronner's soap at every sink.

Simon Doonan's forthcoming diet book Gay Men Don't Get Fat provides Gawker with the opportunity to ruminate on the sad facts of gay life. While the rest of the world exercises and watches their diet to remain healthy and attractive, they note, gay men have to stay fit because otherwise nobody will fuck them.

Yes, it's hope that keeps straights in shape, but fear that keeps us lifting. We don't want to die alone! Heterosexual dudes don't even have to exercise: they can score with chicks if they have good jobs or lots of cash. Homos don't have that option, though. We're not putting up with flabby guys for nothing. That's why David Geffen just can't get a date.

Adding insult to injury, we not only have to be in shape, we have to look like a certain type. Since like attracts like, we have to turn ourselves into what turns us on. "If you want to bed muscles you have to have muscles," Gawker notes. "[I]f you want to land a twink, you better be a twink (or at least some other type that is easily cast in any gay porn movie)."

Have truer words ever been spoken? Gay fascism is truly ridiculous, and it's impacted my life to an incredible degree. Luckily after years of pain and heartache I finally managed to physically transform myself into an air conditioner repairman.

Seemingly contradicting every word that's come before, Gawker then runs off onto a tangent with a discussion of bears. They're "gay men who are hairier and chubbier than average," a phrase that instantly turns every previous word into utter nonsense. Bears are assholes, nonetheless, so it'd be remiss to leave them out of an attack on gays. Because the truth is they're fascists too, but instead of workouts they demand you eat barbecue and drink beer. And if you aren't either smooth and in shape or hairy and chubby they won't even look at you! Even they are sentenced to gym memberships out of fear of loneliness, but presumably they bring food because otherwise I can't explain all that chubbiness.

In the end, Gawker paints a sad picture about how gay men are doomed by fate to stay fit and hot. As for Mr. Doonan's book, well, it's not going to do anybody any favors. If heterosexuals read it and follow his advice, they too will be doomed to be hairy or smooth or skinny or chubby or counting calories or guzzling beer. And once that starts they'll have to turn into porn movie clichés too, which means it's lucky they already look like pizza delivery guys to me.