I've officially hit middle age.

When you're young, you can't even contemplate dying. It's unimaginable, it's impossible. Death can never, ever touch your life. There's so much fabulousness coming up for you, it should be literally impossible for anything to cut that short.

When you're middle-aged, though, that changes. You've seen it all. You've done it all. Now when you face the Grim Reaper you look at your calendar and see you have a DVD to get back to the library and a party at Adriana's on Saturday and you tell him, "Yeah, I guess that'll be okay."

Adding another straw to the camel's back is what I keep hearing about the future. There's good news and there's bad news.

The good news is, because of incredible medical breakthroughs, anybody who can manage to survive for the next twenty years should be able to live FOREVER. That's right! Leading scientists think that in twenty years we'll have the means to halt and even reverse aging, and then nanotechnology will augment our human flesh to make death a thing of the past.

The bad news is, the overuse of antibiotics has created new strains of nightmare bacteria that will infect our bodies and be impossible to kill.

Strangely, nobody seems to be correlating the humans will live forever thing with the antibiotic apocalypse. Because when you add them together you get a pretty interesting picture of the future.

You'll live forever and everybody will have syphilis.

Got that? Yes, you'll meet people who could be four hundred years old and they'll have syphilis. And you thought meeting new people was horrible now:

HOT GUY: Hey, good-looking! Are your lymph nodes swollen or are you just happy to see me?

YOU: Hey, muscles! My lymph nodes are swollen.

HOT GUY: I don't mean to be forward, but the spotting from your secondary rash really highlights your cheekbones.

YOU: Oooh, you sure know how to sweet talk a guy! Wait'll you see my warts.

So, what do you think now? Still want to live forever? I don't know about you, but this pretty much makes Adriana's summer soirées look like It's A Wonderful Life.

"Roman," you say, "I'm an optimist. I'm pretty sure there will still be some people somewhere who won't have syphilis."

Really? You are an optimist. But let's imagine what will happen after, say, 90% of the world gets syphilis. All the billionaires will have syphilis -- I know this is gross already, so don't picture Mayor Bloomberg here -- but they won't want to have sex with syphilitics. They'll want pure, clean flesh. And will those old Amish ladies be able to resist their cash when they've got eternity facing them and horses that need new shoes every year?

But yeah, maybe you'll get lucky and find a few people who have different bugs. Would tuberculosis make you feel better? At least you could have sex with them, though if I'm going to end up covered in white goop I'd rather it not come from somebody's lungs.

Either way, you're welcome to it. Enjoy the future! But count me out. I'm fine fading away, like grandma, with memories of non-syphilitic boyfriends in my head. Into each life of bliss and happiness occasional rain must fall. We console ourselves that we've enjoyed good times, and the bad times only highlight them. It's what I'll do when the Grim Reaper comes, and why I answer the phone when Adriana calls.

RuPaul's Drag Race winner Jinkx Monsoon came to town last night with a fabulous new cabaret show called The Vaudevillians. I loved Jinkx on RuPaul so naturally I had to be there. The show was hysterically funny, an absolutely perfect night out, marred only by a couple of drunk straight girls sitting at the table next to me. It seemed like they just had to show Jinkx how much they loved her by laughing too loud, clapping too hard, and WOO!ing just about every time she blinked.

In the show, Kitty Witless (Jinkx) and her husband Dr. Dan Von Dandy (some guy) are 1920's Vaudeville performers who, through an odd combination of glaciers and cocaine, find themselves frozen alive. When they thaw out nearly a century later, they discover that the songs they've written have been stolen by other performers -- like Brittney, Madonna, and Abba. They then treat us to the original versions, which are totally different from the version we know. Who'd have guessed, for instance, the "original" Piece of My Heart had a jaunty ragtime bounce?

Since the tunes were so different, the only way we could identify the songs were by the lyrics. It was almost a puzzle, I thought, as different parts of the crowd recognized songs at different times, bursting into laughter as enlightenment hit. "Hey, Mr DJ put a record on," Jinkx sang, and one of the straight girls cackled propulsively. "It's Madonna!" she chirped. "Music!"

I shot her an angry glare, but if those did any good my mailman wouldn't spend every afternoon pooping next to my head. With the second song she was even faster. Jinkx sang, "Baby, can’t you see I’m -- " and before Richard Dawson could kiss her she gave the answer. "Toxic, by Brittney Spears!" she said.

This was ridiculous, I thought. I didn't fork over my hard-earned money to listen to some idiot. "THIS IS NOT A CONTEST," I whispered loudly. "It's a cabaret show! You're disrespecting the performer by talking during her act."

The woman looked appropriately chastened, and she sat in silence for the next few minutes. Then Jinkx started singing, "Didn't I make you feel -- " and it hit me. A flood of enthusiasm and excitement overwhelmed me and I just had to share it. Before I could stop myself I said, "PIECE OF MY HEART! Janis Joplin!"

Some weird sixth sense told me the drunk girls were angry. I glanced over at them, and if looks could kill I'd be in Intensive Care. From then on, it was war. It was like Jeopardy! if Alex Trebek wore form-fitting, bugle-beaded gowns. As the first word exited Jinkx's lips, I wracked my brain to identify it, knowing that even a nanosecond's hesitation could mean the difference between glory and having heterosexual Red Zinfandel fans shove mud into my face. "25 years and my life is still trying to get up that great big hill -- "

"WHAT'S GOING ON!" I barked. "FOUR NON-BLONDES!"

I might have shot a haughty look at the drunk girls before glancing over to see if my date shared my excitement. It wasn't even close. "What's the opposite of a high-five?" he whispered.

Still, all the haters couldn't stop me from basking in glory. Now that I was on a roll, they shouldn't have been surprised when I also took the next song. Before Jinkx finished, "I come home in the morning light -- " I'd nailed it. Maybe I did that "Raise the roof" thing as I yelled, "GIRLS JUST WANNA HAVE FUN!"

A few people snickered. My date shook his head. "Roman," he said, "be quiet! You're kind of embarrassing me."

I can be honest too. "'Embarrassing'?" I repeated. "I'm not the one who needs fourteen lines to recognize Cyndi."

The drunk girls and I had our hands on invisible buzzers for the next round. I don't have any excuse: I think the adrenaline must have washed all the music out of my brain. Jinkx got all the way through, "If you change your mind, I'm the first in line," and I was still clueless. "TAKE A CHANCE ON ME!" one of the girls screamed. "ABBA!"

"SHUT ... UP," somebody bigger than us snapped, and we realized the game was over. I didn't even think about our game during the rest of the show, but I was pretty sure we tied.

When the lights finally went up, I felt like everybody was staring at me. I felt like such an idiot. How could I claim to be smart when any idiot could suck me into their game? It was probably even worse for me to act stupid, since I almost had a degree from a major university. I allegedly knew better. As we stepped outside, one of the drunk girls pulled up next to me.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"BRENDA LEE!" I yelled as everyone within eighty yards spun around. The drunk girl and my date and pretty much everyone stared at me but the winner takes it all.

Orson Card Scott has a problem. He's a homophobic Mormon board member of the National Organization for Marriage who said homosexuals "suffer from tragic genetic mixups," that gay sex should be illegal, and that homosexuals should be arrested to "send a clear message that those who flagrantly violate society's regulation of sexual behavior cannot be permitted to remain as acceptable, equal citizens within that society. He said if gay marriage is legalized, the government should be overthrown.

He's also the author of the forthcoming summer sci-fi blockbuster Ender's Game. Many gays are calling for a boycott due to his homophobia. Naturally, his point of view is, um, evolving.

"Ender’s Game is set more than a century in the future and has nothing to do with political issues that did not exist when the book was written in 1984. With the recent Supreme Court ruling, the gay marriage issue becomes moot. The Full Faith and Credit clause of the Constitution will, sooner or later, give legal force in every state to any marriage contract recognized by any other state. Now it will be interesting to see whether the victorious proponents of gay marriage will show tolerance toward those who disagreed with them when the issue was still in dispute." -- Orson Card Scott

Tolerance? Tolerance? After all the shit we've taken from him, now he wants us to just shut up and do nothing?

This is a patently stupid position for Mr. Scott to take. He's allegedly known for his historical fiction, so he should know history. With the words "victorious proponents," he obviously recognizes that the fight for gay rights has been a war, and that his side has lost. He should probably also recognize that when wars end, the bodies and the bullets on the smoke-filled battlefield usually aren't replaced with tailgate barbecues and Jäger shots. There's a reasonable amount of enmity still lingering in the air.

After the Civil War, I'm thinking the losers probably didn't approach the winners and say, "Well, it's over now, so I guess we'll head home! Catch you on the flip side!" And the winners probably didn't go, "Uh, dude, we killed all your horses, so how about we give you a ride?"

See, when a war ends, it resolves the dispute. It doesn't magically absolve the disputers of any blame.

Picture this. Orson Scott Card is a slaveowner. He overworks his slaves. He beats his slaves. He chains his slaves in the barnyard. He says God Himself gave the white man dominion over the black man, and he'll defend this right to the death.

And then one day Abraham Lincoln comes by and says, "All the slaves are free!"

The slaves can't believe their ears. After they rejoice, they turn to their old slave master with hate burning red in their eyes. "Congratulations!" he'll say. "You've won! Guess we can finally sit down and have that beer!"

After a war, the winners don't usually decide whether to focus on truly respecting the beliefs of the losers or rebuilding a bond of humanity that have broken. No, the choice has been whether to enslave the dudes or kill them.

OUR FIGHTING GAY ANCESTORS: So which are you going to do, me lad?

US: Neither! [Trumpets sound.] Henceforth comes the decree: Orson Scott Card shall be condemned to wearing ugly clothes and sprouting sad facial hair for the rest of his life. His children, and his children's children, will be thick as two planks. His future shall be sad and in a few short years he will become an ugly footnote in gay history.

OUR FIGHTING GAY ANCESTORS: [PAUSE] So you're just going to boycott the movie, then?

US: We don't like sci-fi anyway.

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My Life In A Luxury Apartment

My apartment is a trade-off. The building used to be a factory, so it's got huge wood pillars and exposed brick walls, but when it was converted into an apartment building it was scrubbed up and varnished and loaded with the best amenities -- like a roof deck, a bike room, and a fitness center.

The trade-off? My actual apartment is eighteen square feet. While in the rest of the world this is called a "closet," in New York it's what keeps your rent below $3,000 a month.

I rented the place for exactly one reason: the fitness center. In the gay world, muscles get you a nice apartment, not the other way around. At Boots & Saddles, for instance, nobody's going to pick you up because you have a sundeck. On Grindr nobody wants a picture of your master bath. Running to a bar while still pumped up is literally the gay retirement plan.

This fitness center isn't particularly large, which is why I'm doing crunches on a yoga mat directly in front of the bathroom. Before I'm halfway through, a blue figure appears from out of nowhere, steps over me, and closes the door behind him.

It takes a second to register. The Canadian Mounty hat, the shorts with black stripes down the legs. The mailman. Has pulled his little shorts down and is now pooping two feet away from me.

My mind freezes while my body continues to exercise out of habit. Usually I'm indecisive, but here I couldn't be clearer: I don't want to be two feet away from a pooping mailman.

I've started the bicycle-pedaling option when the noises start. You'd recognize them, I think, if you've ever seen that video where two men arm-wrestle until somebody's arm snaps. Suddenly I know how the Egyptians feel right before the Red Sea hits them. Must. Do. Something. FAST.

Despite the waves of internalized horror, my rational mind is still working, and suddenly it hits me: if I let the mailman know how thin the door is, he'll try to quiet down. "OOF!" I go, crunching again. "UNH!" With the unspoken message: you can hear me, which means I can hear you too. But somehow he doesn't get the message. If anything, he increases his efforts. It turns into a painful duet, like walruses mating or a scatological aria. It what Madame Butterfly would have sounded like if it had been set in Mexico.

I've moved on to bench pressing when the door finally opens. I shoot him a friendly look, to give him the chance to apologize. You know, maybe give me a "Sorry -- I guess I shouldn't have eaten that chili!" face. But he doesn't. He doesn't show the shame that a loud pooper should. I guess it makes sense: if he cared what people thought, he wouldn't be taking loud poops two feet away from them.

The next day I've barely laid down when that little blue figure materializes again. I can't believe my eyes, and my luck. I'm baffled. I think, What the fuck is wrong with him? I mean, really -- I don't want to sound blasphemous, but I'm pretty sure Jesus would have cried uncle if a pooping mailman had been his cross to bear. And what's up with his timing, turning up in the afternoon? Isn't pooping pretty much a morning thing?

He closes the door and I hear the shorts drop. I don't need any further prompting: my survival instincts take over and once again I turn into Steffi Graf. Every little movement prompts an anguished outburst. I move a leg: "UNG!" I squeeze my abs: "OOF!" The repeated gusts of air actually make my shorts rustle and my ears ring, but I don't give a damn. I don't care that I'm repeating something that didn't work in the past, which is pretty much the definition of psychotic. I do it anyway.

I grunt. I groan. I howl until Steffi Graf herself would tell me to shut the fuck up when another figure walks in. It's a guy who lives down the hall, dressed in workout clothes. I stop OOF!ing and he shoots me a look of relief. "Oh, thank God," he says in a voice loud enough to travel. "I thought you were the mailman."

There's More Than One Way To Skin A Cat.

Getting an electric mixer tangled in its fur works pretty darn quick. But I is what I is and I ain't gonna change.

Thoughts on the Gay Pride Parade, Take 2

I actually had a great time at the Gay Pride Parade. I got a free cupcake at the Betty Crocker booth, I got a free Choco Taco at a Good Humor truck, and I got a free bottle of Honest Tea. I don't think anybody scored like I did, unless they met a stranger and had sex.

Whenever I See a Couple of Midgets

I want to paint dots on their heads and pretend they're salt and pepper shakers. But I is what I is and I ain't gonna change.

Thoughts on Yesterday's Gay Pride Parade

I know it's not politically correct, but I have to say something about the Gay Pride Parade yesterday in Manhattan. At the risk of sounding out of touch, I just don't get it. I watched all eight hours of this auspicious event, and I didn't see a single example of true gay pride. What I saw was just an endless parade of indecency!

"Oh, Roman," you say, "you should be happy that all those people turned out to support the gay community." Support? You call that support? Because if you think these people are helping our cause, you're mistaken.

Picture this: A conservative Christian stumbles upon the parade, perhaps not hearing the endless media warnings that eight million half-naked homosexuals are going to shut down Fifth Avenue. They won't see that they're just like us: all they'll see is wigs and feathers and tutus and bare flesh. They'd look at these people and say, "What the hell is that?" just like if they'd seen a Kracken, or a kangaroo. They probably wouldn't touch us with a ten foot pole that says "GOD HATES FAGS" on the end.

Do you think they're suddenly going to vote pro-LGBT after seeing eight miles of big-titted creatures in skin-tight spandex? No! These aren't the kind of people who should be representing our community: they should be in a hetero club in the Meatpacking District drinking $18 martinis. Another stereotype is confirmed, and there goes a prime opportunity to educate one of our enemies, though fifty years of reason haven't worked.

Really, people -- is that what we want?

Let's look at a constructive alternative: celebrating something without actually celebrating. For instance, when I lived with my mom, I threw a Fourth of July party that was absolutely amazing. Everybody was respectfully dressed, and we didn't play any music or drink alcohol or light fireworks. Everybody had an incredible time before they suddenly remembered they had to be somewhere else.

I guarantee you, if any Christians had dropped by, they'd have said, "Wow, are these people really homosexual? Because they're just like me! God will surely take them to his bosom and say, 'Hey, my child, I will give you eternal life in heaven because your days on earth just sucked.'"

I'm an atheist so I don't believe in heaven, but I still see it as scoring major points when somebody who's seriously deluded thinks we're okay.

My main point, though, is this pride celebration was way premature. I personally think we won't have any reason to celebrate until we're equal, and we won't be truly equal until celebrations for gender, race, or sexual identity are completely unnecessary. Then, and only then, will I proudly stroll down Fifth Avenue. I won't have a sign and I won't high-five anyone but somehow I know people will see me and go, "Whoa, is that dude gay or what?"

This is amazing. Swarms of people are literally running through the streets here, yelling at the top of their lungs. They're waving flags and banners and singing and chanting and it's like a giant party in the streets. Never, ever have I seen people so excited. I've been trying to come up with an explanation, but the slot machine wheels in my head just spun and then stopped. There weren't any elections. We didn't land on the moon. No matter how impossible it sounds, I've come to exactly one inescapable conclusion about why New Yorkers today are in a virtual frenzy of unbridled bliss:

My novel, bOObs, has just come out!

Honestly, I never expected this kind of reception. I can actually hear cheers coming from outside, and across the street people are hanging out their windows waving rainbow flags. I mean, bOObs is a terrific farce about gender expectations and the fluidity of identity, but this is unbelievable!

Still, at the risk of sounding egotistical, I guess this reception is kind of deserved. I caught a snippet of the TV news where an anchorman said that June 26, 2013 is a day that will go down in history, and I have to admit it truly is a once-in-a-lifetime event, like seeing Halley's Comet: I actually got something published -- by the very highly regarded Ampichellis Ebooks (for the Kindle edition) and Martin Brown Publishers (for the paperback, available next week). Yes, it's been a lot of work. I literally had to sit at home and lay on the couch for months at a time before I even decided to write the freakin' thing. But now judging from the way people are going totally nuts I feel like all those muffins and cappuccinos have been worth it.

Anyway, if you don't want to be left out of the celebrations, pick up the Kindle edition here. I guess they can't sell out, since it's all just downloaded electrons or something, but you should probably order it immediately just in case. It's already gotten a five-star review from somebody I'm pretty sure is legit.

God, now there's like a parade of cars driving by my window honking. Well, I guess I should acknowledge them, but first I have to find my cape.

A Short History Of The Gay Mafia In America

1947: The Gay Mafia is officially born, with founding members Noël Coward, George Cukor, Alfred Kinsey, and Thornton Wilder. Rather than the customary "Don," de factor leader Coward is addressed by the honorific "Judy."

1958: Cole "Knuckles" Porter is enlisted as enforcer for the fledgling Gay Mafia. In sharp contrast to his charming public persona, he terrorizes enemies with bone-chilling threats like the following:

       In olden days, a dude would beat you
       and sometimes he might mistreat you
       But heaven knows
       I'm going to cut off your toes.

1968: Garroting a rival wiseguy, Paul "The Enforcer" Lynde famously declares "We have met the enemy and he is cute."

1971: In an incident famously recreated by The Godfather, Calvin Klein's "offer you can't refuse" includes a tangerine polo and some soap-on-a-rope.

1972: Rather than face an extended blood feud that would decimate both of their families, Godfathers Truman Capote and Gore Vidal agree to take their disagreement to TV's Match Game.

1984: The Gay Mafia's consigliere Liberace ("The Iceman") dies. His soldiers open a museum dedicated to his memory in a Las Vegas strip mall, thereby letting his associates pay their respects while also picking up Slim Jims and Red Bull.

1987: After his success with Donnie Brasco, Mario Puzo attempts an exposé of the Gay Mafia but ends up with the first draft of Mamma Mia!

1994: The relationship between Rock Hudson and Jim Nabors inspires the film Pulp Fiction and later Say Yes to the Dress.

2010: A decade-long feud finally explodes after Clive Davis' autobiography is published, and the Gay Mafia goes to the mattresses to dodge mucho snarkiness from Kelly Clarkson.

2012: When she hears that gay capo Marc Jacobs is going to knock off an old bag, Joan Rivers disappears.

Paula Deen Moves to Amsterdam, Rents Out Anne Frank's House. "There Ain't Nuthin' Wrong With That, Is There?" She Asks.

Here's a preschool test that no adult has ever passed. Which way is this bus going?

You don't know? Well, that makes you pretty stupid, because 99% of all preschoolers immediately knew the answer, and the remaining 1% only got it wrong because they'd stuffed Cheetos in their eyes and all they could see was orange. It's going to the left. Let's let little Justin Crumpwhistle, a four-year-old booger-eater, explain:

"It's got to be going left because you can't see the door to get in! Oops. I just poohed on the dog."

Ha! Wasn't that fun?

Answer: Clearly, no.

See, stupid people try to avoid puzzles. Semi-smart people try to solve puzzles, can't, and then say, "My, how ingenious!" when they hear the answers. But truly smart people solve the puzzle, get a different answer, then complain that the "real" answer stinks.

With the bus conundrum, we haven't been given enough information. The smart adult assumes the simple line-drawing represents an actual bus. Which is why he answered, "Gosh, I have no way of knowing!"

When he heard what the "real" answer was, though, he realized the drawing was supposed to be the actual bus. He said, "Wait, so you're telling me this is a mechanically-correct representation of the alleged mode of transport? In that case, the answer should be, 'The bus ain't going fuckin' anywhere, because the wheels aren't attached to the frame.'"

So-called "lateral thinking" puzzles are the worst. That's where you're given almost no information, but through creativity and imagination you're supposed to devise a scenario that fits. When you hear the answer, you're supposed to think, "Wow, that's so elegant! It's the perfect fit!"

The smart person, however, often finds so many roadblocks to this "solution" that an equally likely answer is that everything is attributable to a paralyzed kangaroo. Take this puzzle, for instance:

A man is lying dead in a field. Next to him there is an unopened package. There is no other creature in the field. How did he die?

Answer: He jumped out of a plane. The package is his unopened parachute.

I can guarantee you that nobody with half a brain will come up with this answer. For one simple reason: if someone actually put their parachute into a "package," they're an idiot who could have choked on a turnip. A far likelier explanation is that the package is an iPhone box. Somebody saw the dude carrying it and shot him, but when he grabbed the box he realized it was empty.

Whoo! Lateral thinking rules.

A man walks into a bar and asks the bartender for a glass of water. The bartender pulls out a gun and points it at the man. The man says "Thank you" and walks out.

Answer: The man had the hiccups. He intended to cure them by drinking a glass of water, but the bartender did it by scaring him.

Me, I'm thinking a bartender pulling a gun on somebody isn't particularly elegant considering you can get killed for owning Skittles in Florida. Or is he another idiot, like in the last puzzle? Because he could have scared the dude by yelling "OOGABOOGA!" and there'd have been zero chance he'd be stabbed with a lime zester in return.

A man is lying dead in a field. He is clutching a broken match. What happened?

Answer: A bunch of people were in a hot-air balloon, desperately fleeing a communist country. Suddenly the balloon started losing altitude, and somebody had to jump out to stop it from crashing. This man drew the short match and had to jump.

I won't argue with this one. Instead I'll just say I would never have suspected that, while plummeting to his death, a man's last thoughts are frequently "CAN'T. DROP. TINY. MATCH. MUSTN'T. DROP. TINY. MATCH."

I think I hate puzzles because of something that happened to me in first grade. My teacher suspected that I was smart, so the school administrators took me out of class for testing. To this day I remember one question they asked me.

They showed me a drawing of a tree. The sun was to the left, and its shadow was also on the left. "What's wrong with this picture?" they asked me.

"Nothing," I said.

"That's nothing wrong with it?"

I shrugged. "Well, I mean, if you want a picture with fuckin' crazy shadows, you could do a hell of a lot worse."

They weren't happy, and as I carried the note back to my parents delineating my behavioral problems I realized you just can't satisfy some people. I've dodged puzzles ever since. Ironically, it makes one thing easy.

If I'm ever found in a field with a puzzle book next to me, just assume I shot myself.

The word strikes terror in a man's heart: Mafia. "Gay Mafia"? Maybe not quite so much. As you can see from the list below, though, the gay version truly lives up to the bone-chilling name of its hetero counterpart.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: A loose association of criminal groups dating back to nineteenth-century Sicily.

GAY MAFIA: A loose association of gay priests who have sex with each other and don't tell anybody.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Their interests lean toward bootlegging, racketeering, bribery, drug smuggling, and loan sharking, all backed up by violence and murder. You know, the usual gangster stuff.

GAY MAFIA: They've been known to pay off their sex partners to keep them quiet. You know, the usual priest stuff.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Initiation rituals include wine, oaths, guns, knives, and blood.

GAY MAFIA: Oddly, the Vatican -- the primary source of Gay Mafia information -- hasn't released any details. I'm guessing at the very least there's amyl and pictures of Hugh Jackman.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: They murder people they don't like, such as Judge Giovanni Falcone, and 63-year-old Giuseppe D'Angelo, who looked like a Mafia boss.

GAY MAFIA: They might say really horrible things about the Pope but they don't want to get in trouble.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Killed seven men in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.

GAY MAFIA: Started a secret online dating service so they too can have valentines.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: After killing Tony Bananas, they stuffed money up his rectum to symbolize greed.

GAY MAFIA: Well, I've had sex with a few Catholics, and as far as I know they save it for the collection plate.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Inspired movies like Little Caesar, The Godfather, Public Enemy, The Untouchables, Donnie Brasco, and Scarface.

GAY MAFIA: I'm pretty sure they were the basis for Stanford in "Sex and the City."

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Lucky Luciano, Al Capone, and John Gotti were all alleged mafiosos who were sentenced to between 11 years and life.

GAY MAFIA: Because of some alleged involvement with a gay prostitution ring, a Vatican chorister and an elite papal usher were fired by the Vatican. I'm thinking the "elite papal usher" must have been particularly high up in the organization, maybe just leading people to the really good seats at mass.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Possibly involved in the death of Marilyn Monroe.

GAY MAFIA: OH NUH-UH!

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Have nicknames like "The Snake," "No Nose," and "Mad Dog."

GAY MAFIA: Again, the Vatican hasn't released any details. Maybe it'll come after, say, one of them has actually been convicted of a crime. Until then, I'll guess "Robey," "The Confessioner," and "Mr. Incense."

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Has perpetuated stereotype of Italian-Americans as sociopathic criminals.

GAY MAFIA: Has perpetuated stereotype of gays as people who have sex and friends.

STRAIGHT MAFIA: Nobody has found even a bone of Jimmy Hoffa.

GAY MAFIA: Never mind.

[Deep breath] They're just gloves that look like tights -- it's not somebody's crotch. [Deep breath] They're just gloves that look like tights -- it's not somebody's crotch. [Deep breath] They're just gloves that look like tights. . . .

Ever since he was a wee piglet, Percival Pig's dad told him he'd be a construction worker when he grew up. This confused Percival Pig. "What if I want to be a crossing guard?" he asked. "Or a plumber? Or an opera singer?"

"It's just the way things are," his dad said. "Everyone is assigned a job based on their innate abilities. Owls are smart, so they are professors. Foxes are sly, so they are businessmen. And pigs are sturdy, so they are construction workers."

Percival Pig didn't argue with his father, but he knew it wasn't right. Still, when his friends Freddy Fox and Ollie Owl went on to college, he dropped out of school and took a job on a construction site.

Every day he'd pile bricks on top of bricks. Lots of bricks. Endless bricks. But then one day he snapped. "I'm fed up with these stinking bricks!" he yelled to the other construction worker pigs. "This is species-based discrimination, and it's not fair. I'm going to find a place where I'm not relegated to a job for mindless idiots just because of what I am."

Percival Pig went home and threw all of his belongings into a knapsack and hopped on a bus out of town. Eight hours later he reached the big city. He couldn't believe his eyes! Instead of trees and lakes there were wide streets and big steel buildings that reached up toward the clouds.

"Isn't it incredible?" said Wally Warthog. "You must be new in town."

"I just moved here," said Percival Pig. "Do you know of somewhere I can live?"

"I do," said Wally Warthog. "I'm having a big new house built. You can live with me!"

"That'd be swell," said Percival Pig. "Thanks!"

The two new friends walked out of the big city to the winding roads of the suburbs, where Wally Warthog stopped in front of a giant pile of bricks. "Here we are!" he said. "This is your new home."

Percival Pig looked and looked but still couldn't see a building. "This is just a stack of bricks."

"Well, it's not entirely completed yet. But they're working hard. Look over there! Frankie Flamingo has been trying to lift that brick for nearly a year. One day he'll probably do it, but until then we keep assuring him that his positive attitude is far more important than actually having arms."

"Absolutely!" said Percival Pig.

Wally Warthog nodded. "That's why he always wins Employee of the Month."

Percival Pig noticed storm clouds moving overhead. "Maybe I'll help him," he said. "We could get this place finished in no time."

"That's very kind of you," said Wally Warthog. "But you can't. That would perpetuate a species-based stereotype and thus is forbidden by law. You could go to jail."

Percival Pig scanned the area for policemen, then stripped off his shirt and joined in. He piled up brick after brick, exactly following the blueprints, and pretty soon he completed a magnificent twenty-foot high statue of Charo.

"Fantastic job!" said Wally Warthog. "What a great new home!"

"No it's not," snapped Percival Pig. "It's a giant statue of Charo. Do you want to live in a giant statue of Charo?"

"Maybe," said Wally Warthog. "Why, here's the architect right now. Gregory Goat, we were just admiring your latest creation. My new house looks just like a giant statue of Charo!"

Gregory Goat crossed his eyes at them. "I'm not an architect -- I'm an artist. And that's not a blueprint: it's a drawing of my girlfriend."

"Oh," said Wally Warthog. "I guess I got confused by the detached bathrooms."

Gregory Goat shook his head. "Those are maracas."

"My mistake. But . . . didn't you tell me you were an architect?"

"You try talking with a tin can in your mouth."

With no other options, Wally Warthog and Percival Pig moved into the giant statue of Charo. They lived together happily while Percival Pig studied hard and eventually he became an opera singer. They were driving to his opening night when another car ran right smack into them.

KABANG! was all they heard. Smoke and fire were everywhere.

"Ohmigosh!" said Wally Warthog, crouching over the near-lifeless body of Percival Pig. "Are you hurt?"

"Maybe a little," said Percival Pig.

Wally Warthog sighed. "I suppose you think it's stupid that our policeman, Millie Mole, directs traffic by sonar."

"I just appreciate the fact she's been given the opportunity."

"That's right," said Wally Warthog. "It's the thought that counts. Look, the paramedics have arrived! They'll fix you up good as new."

Danny Deer grabbed his first-aid kid and hopped out of the ambulance. He trotted over to Percival Pig, but before he got there he noticed the car's headlights pointing straight at him. Though he'd been through eight years of training in emergency medicine and trauma surgery, they hadn't taught him how to ignore his instincts.

He froze.

Wally Warthog couldn't budge him. Barbara Beaver couldn't budge him. Oscar Owl couldn't budge him.

"Well, the good news is," Wally Warthog said to Percival Pig, whose trotters were wedged into the crumple of metal and being sprayed with boiling radiator fluid, "in this bright, fearless city, every individual has an equal opportunity to make something of themselves, regardless of their background or ability. Instead of assuming what people can't do, we have high hopes for what they can."

Percival Pig squinted as his liver shut down once and for all. "That is so totally cool," he said.

* * * * *

All the animals came to Percival Pig's funeral. Becky Bird made a speech. Orville Ostrich brought snacks. Steve Squirrel lowered the casket into a plot overlooking the city, where it rested in peace. And then one day the snows came, and he dug it up again.

FIN

Yo folks! Sorry I've missed a few days. I have a book coming out, and people who actually support themselves in publishing are nagging at me to finish it. Giving me the biggest headache? The acknowledgements.

See, I'm not sure where to draw the line. Naturally I'm thanking the people I love, and people who are important to me. Now what do I write on the remaining 27 lines? Should I name-drop cool people I've only met once or twice? Should I thank people I haven't talked to in years just to I can casually mention some prestigious newspapers and magazines where I've been published? Should I thank some acquaintances in hopes I'll get something in return? My friend Balfour has a lot of cash and a lot of weed.

The good news is, my indecision is your opportunity. When I was a kid, I always wanted to be in somebody's acknowledgements. In every book I read, the author thanked like ten or fifteen people, so I figured it'd happen eventually. But the years slowly slid by, and while my friends went on to distinction in the fields of drinking and shopping and collecting DVDs, they didn't make much of a mark in the publishing world. I've done some successful writing but I've never been thanked by a successful writer, weighing me down with a millstone of shame that one of my readers won't have to bear.

I'm proposing a contest that lets one lucky reader write a thank-you line in the acknowledgements of my book. There are literally no rules: the acknowledgement doesn't have to be true, and it can be about a person, place or thing. Make sure there's a motivation behind it: Did you teach me how to mesmerize men using my elbows and a tambourine? Did you tell a flight attendant you stole my lunch so I'd get an extra salami sandwich? Did you spend eight hours in my bathroom reeling me in like a marlin after I accidentally swallowed a spool of dental floss? All it has to be is interesting or entertaining, and you've got a good shot.

Anyway, put your entries into the comments. Deadline is Friday at 5:00 EST (I said my publisher is mad). I reserve the right to completely ignore the winning entry if it could get me sued.

"Important to recognize he had no mal-intent, no ill-intent whatsoever. Essentially what it is if you are a man, a heterosexual and you are speaking complimentary about another heterosexual you're basically giving a compliment by also accentuating the fact that you're not a homosexual." -- Sports journalist Stephen A. Smith, explaining Indiana Pacer Roy Hibbert's use of the phrase "no homo"

Actually, that's really interesting. Not black.

(I've never heard of him either, but he has 1,312,623 Twitter followers.)

Arvind Mahankali was crowned America's best speller yesterday. The New York high schooler took top honors in the Scripps National Spelling Bee by correctly spelling "knaidel," which is the Yiddish word for a matzo ball. Mahankali is the first boy to win the Bee since 2008.

Take that, logophiliac bitches!

"The good news is, at least with the people that I’ve seen, not a lot of people, when the healing takes place those areas of the brain that were showing the homosexuality show heterosexuality. I have had several people who when I looked at them I couldn’t tell the difference between a heterosexual who never was homosexual and them, which means the brain is able to go back and fire the way it is supposed to be, which is an argument against the whole idea of someone was born that way." -- Ex-gay activist Dr. Jerry Mungadze, who claims to be able to rewire gay brains.

"Next up?" asks the brain genius. "Epilepsy!"

"She's very old," Emma said. "And she means everything to me."

I don't know why I didn't piece these two little facts together before Emma left. I guess I was just excited by the prospect of pet-sitting a fluffy little cat, even if it was just for one night. I didn't realize that, at sixteen, Audrey was the feline equivalent of Skeletor, and that if anything happened to her I'd have to find a new apartment to avoid the seething bile of her parent, my neighbor, for the rest of my natural life.

I pet-sit for lots of animals in my building, but prefer cats for one simple reason: they stay in their own home. Their parents don't drop them by my place with tiny luggage, saying, "I'm sure you'll have a lovely time!" They just toss me a copy of their keys and say I should stop by a couple times a day. Leave out some food, remind the cat there are humans around, and let it resume its usual life of sleeping 28 hours a day.

Emma had one further requirement: since the cat was old, it needed to be prodded into both mental and physical activity. Maybe after feeding the cat I could play with it for a few minutes, Emma suggested as she handed over her keys. I focused on the cool facts (she was visiting friends in New Jersey, they were all going mountain biking, she was actually going to take a cab) and ignored the sticklers (Audrey was sixteen, Emma had gotten her as a kitten, in terms of durability Audrey made Austrian porcelain look like Jackie Chan). I was fixated on a night of feline fun when she said she keeps a man's razor in her medicine chest so she won't have to scrape away at her wrists with a Venus razor after little Audrey passes away.

I assured her it'd be no problem, until the door closed behind Emma and I realized it was. Audrey, it seems, is nothing but fur. This is not the body of a healthy cat, I realized as my hands ran over the lightly-covered bones. The evolutionary difference between this thing and an iguana was about thirty pounds of fur. She might look fluffy and soft and pretty, but spritz her with half a teaspoon of water and I'm pretty sure she morphs into a Giacometti with big blue eyes.

As I watched Emma's taxi drive away, it hit me: I was neck-deep in a nightmare. Audrey and I would probably have a nice night -- but what if Audrey died? There was no doubt in my mind that Emma would come after me with a Zippo lighter and napalm. I liked my apartment, but its charms would lessen substantially if my neighbor spent most of her days starting fires on my welcome mat.

Six hours later, when I let myself back in, I spent twenty minutes turning the doorknob. I cracked the door open half an inch. I don't think it's bragging to say I'm exciting enough to give an old cat a heart attack, even without removing my clothes. I did everything in my power to ramp down my natural charisma to the level of a Republican. "Audrey," I said in Jeff Bridges' voice, "I'm somebody really boring who's come to check on you. My pockets are full of mud and silt rather than dead birds or sardines."

She lifted her oversized head off the little cat-bed and gazed blankly at me. So far so good. I walked like Lurch to the refrigerator, suppressing the urge to say, "Where's my little kittie-cat?" or "What did snookie-ookums do today?" Before I pulled out the tub of cat food, I figured I should slowly get the critter up to speed. "Audrey," I said, "food will be appearing shortly. There may be lots of it, and it may be dolloped into a hand-thrown bowl. It might be salmon-flavored and it might actually contain chunks of garden-fresh vegetables." After I said that I felt particularly stupid, because even vegetarians don't have heart attacks at the impending arrival of, say, squash. Audrey shot me a look that confirmed I was somewhere between clog-dancing and frozen taquitos on the Excitement Scale, and I nearly high-fived myself.

Emma had told me to play with Audrey, so I'd bought a toy mouse from the local dollar store. "Audrey," I said as she lapped up dinner, "in a minute I will be bringing out a small toy. I have to warn you: it will look like a mouse. It will look like a mouse because it's a small rubber mouse, but it isn't actually a mouse. There's nothing interesting inside it except a squeaker and the name of a Chinese factory. It doesn't move of its own accord, so at any time -- should you become winded from your primitive 'play' -- you decide to stop, you will know that the mouse will remain exactly where you dropped it. You are under no obligation to kill, maim or otherwise injure this mouse, because it poses no threat to anyone. Okay?"

She looked at me like I was an idiot, which I learned from my last boyfriend means "I am totally fine with that." I extracted the rubber mouse from my pocket and set it in front of Audrey.

She didn't look remotely interested, and I gave myself another gold star. "Let's play fetch," I said in Ben Stein's monotone. "That would be really fun." I picked up the mouse, which I'd put near her right paw, and moved it toward her left paw. I might have seen just a flicker of happiness dart across her face, but it was gone almost before it appeared. In human terms it was roughly equivalent to hearing Al Roker is going to be on David Letterman. If I could have heard her thoughts, it would have been less of a "OHMIGOD IT'S A MOUSE MOUSE MOUSE!!!" and more like, "Oh, like that's one motherfuckin' whee."

Audrey didn't actually touch the mouse, which was fine with me. I mean, at ABC 99 I'd just about peed my pants when I realized it squeaked. She left it up to me to move the mouse around. Sure, maybe it wasn't exactly kitty aerobics, but you have to dampen your expectations when someone or something reaches this kind of age. If you've ever seen a senior dance class they don't exactly smack you in the thighs if you jitterbug too slow.

As her attention faded I sighed with relief, realizing my job was done. As a reward, I lifted Audrey up onto her owner's bed so she could have a restful night. Right before I closed the door I felt the mouse in my pocket, and I thought, "Oh, what the hell." I mean sure, the cat had barely touched it, but even I'm not cheap enough to return something to the dollar store. Before I could stop myself I tossed the mouse onto the floor, and in slow motion I watched Audrey's eyes engage -- first the rheumy yellow, then the glossy white. As I closed the door I heard what sounded like a porcelain tea service meeting its demise, and I made a mental note to stock up on welcome mats.

In unrelated news, Mexican officials announced today THE COUNTRY HAS RUN OUT OF COKE.

Hamptons Residents Worry About Hurricane Sandy Victims

Coming To Their Beaches And Fucking Them Up

Story.

I don't know. I can't quite put my finger on it, but there's something about this email I got that's kind of creepy.

PRESS RELEASE

What's the secret to great coffee? According to master designer Michael Graves, it's all in the coffee pot. And now you can buy the one that's taking Europe by storm.

His new stainless-steel kettle, available exclusively at J. C. Penney, cuts quite the commanding picture on your stovetop. Now you too can make great-tasting coffee or tea without pots or panzer.

Light and easy to carry, you'll find this cordless kettle indispensable whether on u boat or at mein kampfsite. The high-pitched hiss means your water is boiling hot so you won't have to race mixing in milk or sugar. Before you know it, the fabulous aroma of freshly-brewed coffee or tea will be luftwaffing through your home. Drop by J. C. Penney today and see what the furor is all about.

                           -- Rachel Purity for J. C. Penney

I'm pretty sure putting asterisks around a word means you have to purse your lips and stick your pinkie out when you say it.

And in the 39th minute, 1,400 people will get off the ginormous ferris wheel, look around and say, "Wait -- we're still in Staten Island."

Dreamworks, Sony Rave About, Love Hiring The Heterosexual Filmmakers At B. Y. U.

“Honestly,” says Marilyn Friedman, the former head of outreach at DreamWorks, who visited B.Y.U. frequently, “the first few times I went to Provo, I was like: What am I doing here? I’m a little Jewish girl from back East. But I was just amazed by how absolutely lovely those kids are. They couldn’t be nicer, humbler, more respectful. It’s a pleasure. And when they come [to work at DreamWorks], they stay that way.”

The little Jewish girl doesn't say a word about the honor code these absolutely lovely kids have to sign promising they won't engage in the "homosexual behavior" that makes God smite us fags. But gays don't do animation, right? They just decide what the princesses wear.

But I don't actually want to go to Disney World, I thought, as I read the anonymous letter announcing I'd won an all-expenses-paid trip. Still, my hands shook so much from excitement I could hardly make sense of the part that said a Nigerian prince had bought me a ticket in the Irish Lottery and it'd been picked for first prize. Who was I to look a gift horse in the mouth? I read all the details on the enclosed calendar, congratulated myself on my luck, and started to pack.

It's not that I don't like Disneyland, I thought as an oversized mouse wearing a sombrero greeted me at the entrance. It's their relentless, over-the-top marketing. They don't just advertise: it's like they've bought off every journalist in the universe. When, for instance, the New York Times prints an article about Walmart's sweatshop problems, they mysteriously find a way to bring up Epcot. When ESPN anchors mention Michael Vick's dog conviction they somehow manage to tie in Lady and the Tramp.

The mouse presented me with a "magic rose" that I'd tap against an iPad specifying everything I wanted to do. But all the glitz and glitter shrouded a distasteful media cynicism, I thought as my boat quietly glided through Ariel's undersea grotto at Disney World's New Fantasyland. They don't just blur the line between advertising and reality -- they totally decimate it!

Every time I pick up a magazine or newspaper they just happen to have a "totally unbiased" critic gushing about how fabulous the place is. Really, Conde Nast Traveller: don't you sense even a small disconnect to put a twelve-page photo spread of Orlando, Florida in between Louis Vuitton ads? And c'mon, Vogue: I don't think Pocahontas would ever wear Prada, though I can think of more than a few excuses for that "Fuck the world!" look on her face.

Even Dopey would realize that Disney owns ABC within three minutes of tuning in. America's Funniest Home Videos mentions a Disney park every four minutes -- when they're not actually filming there. Modern Family has dropped by. I'm surprised Saturday Night Football hasn't decided to use animated seahorses in place of goal posts.

It's not just annoying -- it's offensive! I nearly gave Ariel the finger when she waved at me from her clamshell. The raves are so ubiquitous I actually asked Goofy about it over lunch.

"Gawrsh," he said, "I haven't noticed. A'course, I cain't read!"

Was he just playing stupid, I asked myself, or were those giant shoes for real? The whole exchange left a bitter taste in my mouth, though that could have been the warm arugula salad that Chip N' Dale brought for my entree.

Still, as I rode the pumpkin carriage toward Tomorrowland, I thought it'd be sour grapes not to try to enjoy the place. "I think I'll go on Space Mountain," I said to Goofy. "Or do you think the line will be too long?"

"Duh," he said, "I'm pretty durned stupid but even I noticed that you're the only dude here!"

The place really was deserted, I noticed, so I decided to take advantage of it and have an old-fashioned blast. I even enjoyed a ride I usually detest -- "It's A Small World" -- though maybe it's because I never noticed the signs saying, "Welcome, Roman!" in forty-two languages.

Maybe it was exhaustion speaking, but by the end of the day they won me over. After going on twenty or thirty rides and gorging myself on every food known to man, I realized there was a reason journalists were unanimous in their praise. I was heading for the exit with tears in my eyes when Gaston appeared out of nowhere with a hoagie sandwich and an orchid corsage.

I usually don't let men kiss me but I make concessions when Italian cheese is involved. Despite the fact his beard stubble could clean lasagna pans, a familiar worry reappeared. "Disney doesn't give journalists special treatment in exchange for free publicity?" I asked.

"Absolutely not," he replied. "I ask everyone to go with me on a moonlight swim, even if they aren't incredibly handsome."

By the time we reached the white sand beach at Mark Twain Island, I was exhausted, though he was the one who'd swum across the lake with me hanging onto his back. We collapsed on the sand and watched the stars twinkle in the sky. "Isn't this romantic?" he asked, shaking the water from his silky locks and moving in close. "Just the two of us, and the sun setting behind the authentic New Orleans large-capacity paddle-wheel riverboat."

I watched water droplets run in rivulets down his firm pecs and in between his abs. "You mesmerize me, you enchant me, you bewitch me," he continued, cupping my chin and looking deep into my eyes. "You've even made me forget that chick. That girl. That -- what's her name."

"Belle," I replied.

"Don't remind me," he said, "though it's difficult to forget a film that's grossed over $810 million worldwide."

A meerkat bearing champagne appeared out of nowhere and Gaston popped the cork. "To us!" he said as we clinked glasses. "You drive me wild, like the recently-renovated Cars attraction in the refurbished Adventureland."

With bubbles breaking on our lips he kissed me. His lips felt like the pillows that singing flamingos had carried over to prop us up. "I can't believe you treat every visitor like this," I whispered.

"Every single one," he confirmed, flipping me over for a back massage. "We do not treat you any better because 17 people read World Class Stupid every day."

I sighed and decided for the first time in my life that I'd been a total idiot. Fireworks burst over our heads while Gaston slid down his underwear, and as he said "Get ready for Dumbo!" I thought, wait.

I was actually thinking about trying out for this part, but it's probably for that Guinness World Records show, right? Is The A-List: Dallas still on?

Student In Freudian Symbolism Class Claims She Was Harassed By Professor's Banana

Story.

A Skill That I Find Useful In Every Room Of The House

New York Trends: The Rich Are Furious That Poor People Are Looking Through Their Glass

Rich people have had enough. Shortly after moving their pony-skin sectionals and Philippe Starck ghost benches into their top-end designer condos, they realized that those sparkling walls of glass had a serious drawback.

Sure, they let the residents see out. But they let other people see in.

Cissy Margolis loved her new apartment. On the third floor of a new super-luxury development in Tribeca, she could see all the way to New Jersey from her Roche Bobois chaise. She could watch planes take off at JFK from her sunken Ligne Roset tub. But then one day she spotted something she'd never have expected in her wildest dream.

Somebody was standing outside her apartment, looking in -- at her.

"I was flabbergasted," she said. "I knew I'd get to look at everybody walking by and maybe criticize their clothes. Instead, they're standing outside and laughing at me! Sure, I bought a glass apartment, but I had no idea I'd be living in a fishbowl."

Mandy Lebrun echoes her neighbor's comments, but she accepts some of the guilt. "I don't know what I was thinking," she says, trying to ignore a dozen homeless people watching her speak to a reporter while practicing her Downward Dog. "I guess I assumed New York glass was smart enough not to let everybody use it. I actually get furious at what I have to put up with. I feel like I've spent all this money on my dream home and somehow poor people are allowed to enjoy it too."

Luckily the hyper-rich have a powerful ally: Mayor Bloomberg. The tiny billionaire doesn't hesitate to leap to their defense. "When I changed the zoning laws to allow replacement of any existing building in New York with a 500-story tower hand-blown from Baccarat crystal, I assumed poor New Yorkers were smart enough to know that actually looking at one of these towers was an invasion of privacy. These homeowners have spent a small fortune to be able to see Central Park from their oversized pony-shaped toilets. They don't need the envious unemployed bringing them down."

Mr. Bloomberg resisted a reporter's idea that these homeowners are idiots. "You don't get rich by being stupid," he snapped. "Clearly there's a misunderstanding about glass. You don't need a dozen Peruvian cleaning ladies to make it crystal clear: LOOKING AT RICH PEOPLE IS NOT OKAY."

In his search for a solution, the Mayor has allocated $200 million of the city's budget to devise a solution to glass's transparency. "At this very moment my staff is looking into a whole slew of possibilities," he says, "from automated blinkers for poor people to RFID sunglasses that enable or disable transparency based on your 401K. The rich have always had more vision, so it makes sense that New York City would spearhead a system that would literally allow them to see more."

The mayor says he won't hesitate to use the law if technology doesn't work. He's instructed the Attorney General to write up a bill that will make it illegal to look into glass, while protecting the right to look out. Unfortunately, a problematic first draft would have saddled someone with twenty years at Rikers simply for walking past a Ferrari dealership. Until the details of such a law are ironed out, the Mayor is appealing to poor people's sense of morality. "I would like to reiterate: glass is not a two-way street."

Emboldened by the city's inaction, the trend has sparked a hobby of questionable legality. Rather than standing outside the transparent apartments of celebrities, many New Yorkers have actually mounted tiny videocameras to record everything that happens inside.

"It's hysterical," says Dino Blickner, a Williamsburg resident who's admitted to owning a dozen or so cameras that gaze at everyone from Giselle Bündchen to Calvin Klein. "When you watch the film at thirty or forty times normal Gwyneth Paltrow looks nearly human."

In fact, the fad has proven so popular that some underground clubs now show these subversive videos. On Tuesday nights at the Village Armory, for instance, eight large-screen TVs show twenty-four hours of Martha Stewart's life sped up into ten minutes. The overflow crowd laughs and maybe feels a smidgen of guilt, but mostly wonders why she has an assistant whose sole task is to make origami elk and six drawers in her bedroom armoire that contain nothing but spatulas.

Ms. Margolis, for her part, is organizing other tenants into a class-action suit against the building's developer. "I am convinced they knew that people can look through glass," says the ex-model who's currently designing a line of jewelry made out of precious gems and gold-plated rabbit skulls. "There's no other word to describe it than just plain old stupidity."

"It's unbelievable," sniffed J. Walter Dibner, a hedge fund analyst who recently moved into a split-level loft in NoHoBo. "They just stand there and stare at me. It's like they're watching Downton Abbey."

The fourteen people outside weren't sympathic. "Nowhere near," corrected Miguel Apolito. "Downton Abbey never had any douche bags doing blow with $800 hookers."

Good morning, Mr. Fogle. The men you are looking at are high-ranking Russian bureaucrats who might be willing to sell top-secret information to the U. S. A. Your mission is to contact them and judge the possibilities for yourself.

Since discretion is of utmost importance, we've given you a selection of wigs so you won't attract attention.

Yuri Fyodorov is in his sixties, and he might trust you more if he thinks you are close in age. We've furnished you with a professionally-styled "Anderson Cooper" hairpiece.

Sergei Yuditsky is long-time bureaucrat who appears unwilling or unable to get promoted. He might be more willing to trust you if also look like a failed bureaucrat, so we recommend a style like the "Michael Scott."

Ivan Yanukovich sympathizes with the class struggles of immigrants and ethnic minorities, so for him we propose the "Movin' On Up."

Anatoly Kasyanenko is an ex-Gestapo agent and a real hard-liner. For its hint of instability and menace we recommend the "Pulp Fiction" model.

The "Monkees" wig might give you an edge with Anatoly Kasyanenko. His kids are named Davy, Micky, Michael and Peter but it could just be a coincidence.

Additionally, these sunglasses might come in handy, but we recommend not pairing them with the "Pulp Fiction" wig if one truly wishes to avoid drawing attention.

We've also provided you with a stack of 500-euro notes to encourage these men to aid us. If for some reason you can't find them, we've printed up a bunch of letters you can slide under their doors asking if they'd like to be spies.

Your mission, Ryan, should you decide to accept it, is to win these men's trust and convince them to sell you top-secret information. As always, should you or any of your IM Force be caught or killed, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions. This tape won't self-destruct, because we've just given you a ton of evidence so what difference is one more thing going to make? Good luck, Ryan.

Today's Lesson in Economics

There is a severe shortage of inexpensive workers in America today. Many corporations badly need workers, but they can't find them at a good price.

Ordinarily, America is built on a system of supply and demand. If corporations really need workers, they'd pay whatever the market demands to get those workers.

However, corporations maintain that they're suffering because of the deficit of workers, and they can't find workers at the price they're willing to pay. It's hampering their ability to function in America today.

So, in the face of impending catastrophe, they've complained to Congress. Congress has agreed to intervene, because if corporations can't afford the workers they need, everybody suffers. And why should they? Undocumented workers will do the job just as well as lawful ones, and at far less of a price.

Many politicians have decided that we should open our borders to undocumented workers, since they're an inexpensive alternative that's readily available. China, for example, has many millions of undocumented workers that they'd love to send to America. Additionally, Senators Charles Schumer and John McCain are drafting legislation that will feature a path to legitimacy for some 11 million undocumented workers, hopefully freeing them from the stigma that comes with being branded as second-class.

Some argue that, in the face of increased competition, documented workers will find themselves drastically devalued, if not tossed onto be the trash heap. But the government maintains that these new undocumented workers will simply fill a void that would never have been filled by the documented ones. As a result, everybody wins.

* * *
It's an interesting argument, isn't it? Do you agree? Discuss.

Now, replace "corporations" with "people," and "workers" with "Louis Vuitton handbags."

* * *
There is a severe shortage of inexpensive Louis Vuitton handbags in America today. Many people badly need Louis Vuitton handbags, but they can't find them at a good price.

Ordinarily, America is built on a system of supply and demand. If people really need Louis Vuitton handbags, they'd pay whatever the market demands to get those Louis Vuitton handbags.

However, people maintain that they're suffering because of the deficit of Louis Vuitton handbags, and they can't find Louis Vuitton handbags at the price they're willing to pay. It's hampering their ability to function in America today.

So, in the face of impending catastrophe, they've complained to Congress. Congress has agreed to intervene, because if people can't afford the Louis Vuitton handbags they need, everybody suffers. And why should they? Undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags will do the job just as well as lawful ones, and at far less of a price.

Many politicians have decided that we should open our borders to undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags, since they're an inexpensive alternative that's readily available. China, for example, has many millions of undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags that they'd love to send to America. Additionally, Senators Charles Schumer and John McCain are drafting legislation that will feature a path to legitimacy for some 11 million undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags, hopefully freeing them from the stigma that comes with being branded as second-class.

Some argue that, in the face of increased competition, documented Louis Vuitton handbags will find themselves drastically devalued, if not tossed onto be the trash heap. But the government maintains that these new undocumented Louis Vuitton handbags will simply fill a void that would never have been filled by the documented ones. As a result, everybody wins.

When I was six I fell in love with my first-grade teacher, Dr. Doctor. I didn't realize there were teams and I'd chosen the wrong one: I just went with my heart. Everything I learned about men and women in the ensuing years, though, confirmed that I'd made the right choice.

Some of the differences between the two genders are apparent in the songs they sing. For instance, there's a huge gap between the desires they express in songs that start with "If I." When Pete Seeger sang "If I Had a Hammer," for instance, he spoke for the average male. This gruff dude wanted something simple (a hand tool) for an altruistic reason (to hammer out injustice).

Sure, it's not very exciting for a boyfriend, but if you've got a nail it helps.

Following close behind the hammer is Mr. Seeger's desire for a bell. He's not going to do anything weird with it: he just wants to ring it in the morning and ring it in the evening. I don't know about you, but if my husband harbored a secret innermost desire, I'd be pretty relieved if it was just a brass thing with a clanger. There are far worse things than hubby taking you aside and saying, "Sweetie, I don't know how to break this to you, but I'd really, really like a bell."

Sure, maybe these yearnings don't make a lot of sense. Any woman fighting off injustice would have the sense to wish for a lawyer, or pepper spray. When the Klan is storming down your street with torches lit and you're throwing all your valuables into a pillowcase, it's not going to help things when your man yells out, "Honey, have you seen my bell?" Still, it's a male thing that's endearing nonetheless.

A decade later Johnny Cash is similarly gruff and simple with "If I Were A Carpenter." Women never express desires like this: no, according to TV they just want their families to use less toilet paper, and some Activia. But if Johnny can imagine any crazy scenario in the entire world, he ends up with a chisel in his hand.

If the PC police are around, the second line is a bit problematic:

If I were a carpenter
and you were a lady....

But this is the way dudes are, right? They don't know what they're saying until it's out of their mouths. "I'm imagining a totally unreal, sci-fi scenario," he's telling his squeeze. "Instead of being a singer, I work with my hands. And you, you're a classy female."

Still, I think the theme is there. Men aren't complicated: they just want to make things. They want to help out.

Now, let's bring the ladies into the picture. A couple of decades later, Gladys Knight drew a picture of the world's most perfect relationship in "If I Were Your Woman." The song is cool for roughly six seconds before she drops the rabbit into the boiling water:

If I were your woman
and you were my man
you'd have no other woman....

Got that? That's a typical woman talking. Doesn't that make you yearn for the simplicity of that bell? What Gladys wants is for you to change. "Now that I'm your woman," she snaps, "why do you act the way you do? That's not gonna fly around here, nosirree." Fifteen words out of her mouth and we're in an argument. We're yelling, "Well, Gladys, if you were my woman, you'd have to lay off the french fries. Got that? You think little palm trees on your fingernails will make me forget you got cankles? Not a chance."

Beyoncé offers a similarly bizarre vision and a ditto:

If I were a boy even just for a day,
I'd roll out of bed in the morning
and throw on what I wanted
and go drink beer with the guys.

If this isn't going to scare you gay I don't know what will. Girls, evidently, can't roll out of bed. Or throw on what they wanted. This surprised me, because I never really pictured Beyoncé screaming, "NO! I WON'T WEAR IT! YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!" five minutes before TMZ shows her in a skin-tight, sequined tube-top. But Ms. Carter totally gets the male demimonde. She'd fit right in at the old watering hole: "I would like a beer, because I'm a boy!" The only place that's gonna work is on Jerry Sandusky's lap.

If I were a boy,
I think I could understand
how it feels to love a girl --
I swear I'd be a better man.

What's that? Yup, eight lines into the song, thirty years after Gladys, women are still whining. "If I could be a man," she sings, "I'd be better than any goddamn men!" See, you can't do that. You can't say, "If I were an owl, I'd be a flamingo." It doesn't make sense. Maybe she wouldn't have sold as many records, but Ms. Carter would have been closer to grammatical correctness singing, "If I were a chick with a dick."

Anyway, I think the lines are drawn. You don't need to be a college graduate to see the obvious, to see who belongs with who. I'm picturing our ladies at some posh wine bar:

GLADYS: "If I were your woman, you wouldn't cheat on me."

BEYONCÉ: "Girlfriend, if I were your man I would never disrespect you like that."

What do Pete and Johnny think about it? Who gives a fuck? Isn't this a great bell?

January Jones’ makeup artist, Rachel Goodwin, says that she embellished Jones’ shockingly dark Chanel eye makeup “by adding jet crystals on top. I wanted January’s makeup to have an element of danger to it, which was what the punk movement was all about.”

It's a total triumph, Rachel. AIEEE! Look out for the thin woman in sequins getting out of that limo.

Sigh. Christians are sooo angry these days. As you can see from the cartoon above, it seems their little religious role model Tim Tebow was treated really badly by the media, who are currently turning somersaults over Jason Collins.

Now, I'm not sure the first part of that sentence is correct. After Tebow announced that he was Christian, there were a few obscure but respectful references to it in the press.

Madonna would kill to be treated that badly.

Why do the whiners say the sports stars were treated differently? U. S. News and World Report has a theory:

Tebow, you see, is a Christian – and is fairly open about.

Fairly open. FAIRLY open. Tim Tebow? Uh, perhaps they missed the part where he dropped to his knees to praise Jesus every time he found a Krispy Kreme with the "HOT DONUTS" light on. Maybe they didn't notice that he swings incense around his head every time he finds a parking space at the mall.

This "fairly open" Christian also wrote Bible quotes on his face before games. I don't know about you, but I'm pretty sure I can't show up for work with Jacquelline Suzanne quotes scrawled on my face. You can't really say the two dudes are similar until Jason Collins runs out onto a basketball court with "IT'S RAININ' MEN!" written under his eyes.

Tim Tebow also fell to his knees to praise God every time he made a touchdown. Collins? I'm pretty sure after he makes a basket he doesn't run off-court and mime that he's buttfucking somebody. I'll bet I can find five hundred tweets from Tebow mentioning God while Collins has remained mum about Kathy Griffin. Clearly the cartoon is missing the third panel, where Tim Tebow grinds the reporter's face in the dirt while screaming, "I'M CHRISTIAN!!! HEAR THAT, GODLESS HEATHEN? CHRISTIAN!!!"

Besides, Tebow was hardly the first Christian in football:

It's not like his disclosure was a big shock to the fans. Jason Collins, on the other hand, took a bit more of a risk coming out. I mean, I spent twenty minutes on Google and I couldn't find one afro-wigged fan holding a sign that said, "Make a touchdown, girlfriend, and then let's go buy us some shoes!"

As for that "Tell me more, you big hero!!!" side of the cartoon, well, I think it got drowned out by ESPN The Magazine senior writer Chris Broussard's friendly aside to Collins on national TV saying gay people can't be Christians and that their "lifestyle" is "an open rebellion to God."

In the end, though, I think the media will be fair. Everybody loved Tebow -- but he just wouldn't shut up. I'm pretty sure they'll feel the same way about Jason Collins the eight-hundredth time he mentions Anderson Cooper, our Lord.