Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Daily Dude I Want to Hit: homos
DOB: same as humanity
Occupation: totally ruling
Hometown: everywhere
Current residence: everywhere!
Why I Want to Hit that Hotness: So Sunday was Pride, and as always, it was a drunken great time. It's hard to be in a bad mood around thousands of gays during Pride because the atmosphere is so buoyant and joyful. Besides, being part lesbish myself, I have gone through the difficulties that most hommasekshuls probably face at one time or another: feeling like a freak, a pervert, a hellbound sinner, etc. Pride is great because everyone just celebrates who they are without reservation, and has a fucking blast. I have nothing but respect for the way gays can party their faces off with regard to who they are.
What I have less respect for is the proliferation of ugly-ass lesbians. I just do not understand why so many dykes just don't keep themselves up. There were more fat-ass harpies in stretch pants and pizza-faced trolls than I could shake a Pride flag at. While I made good on my promise to Twathopper to point out some of the ladies who did not fall into the category of "butch" or "dykes on bikes," I was less successful in pointing out some regular-looking lesbians who were actually attractive. Before the parade started, J-Sexy, I'mNotRussianGoddammit, Twathopper, Twathopper's friend (who I'll call CuteClothes because she's a snappy dresser...the last time I saw her she was rocking this adorable pair of heels and Sunday she was stunting in this hot-ass strapless dress), and myself went to this place down Seventh Avenue a couple blocks from the parade route for outdoor brunch, and we could not get over the sheer number of lesbians slacking heavily in the personal maintenance department. First off, a lot of ladies need to eat more pussy and less McDonald's, because there were some morbidly obese broads out in force. Unfortunately, said fat-ass broads were the ones who seemed to think that either white lycra stretch pants or a stripper-esque bra/miniskirt combo were appropriate attire for their size 22 asses. Second, a lot of the girls who WOULD be attractive were not making an even minimal effort to keep themselves up. I'd see what appeared from down the street to be a cute girl heading our way, only to realize that girlfriend needs to hit the Proactiv solution something serious when she'd get up close. The general sloppiness of the average lesbian wandering around was emphasized by the impeccably groomed gay men juxtaposed beside them. The group of super bitchy fags at the table next to us heard J-Sexy and I crowing about Tila Tequila's "snap-on tits," instantly became our friends, and we spent a solid hour making fun of the personal style choices of passing lesbians.
"Hey, I'mNotRussianGoddammit," said J-Sexy. "There's a girl for you. She looks kind of alternative and she has short hair."
We all looked to see this girl in a torn, dirty shirt, a pair of stained cutoffs, and a short, tousled mop of greasy hair.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" asked I'mNotRussianGoddammit. "I don't like HOMELESS girls!"
"J-Sexy, that bitch DOES look like a vagrant. And she's wearing a FANNY PACK!" I argued in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense.
"Fanny packs are in now! They're retro," said J-Sexy. "And anyway, she's not a vagrant...she's just grunge!"
"Grunge?! What is this, 1993? Dude, sorry, but I left my old Alice in Chains shirt back in my FRESHMAN YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL!" I said to J-Sexy. I felt it was important to argue in I'mNotRussianGoddammit's defense, since she's a hot piece and can certainly do better than indigent lesbians caught in an early '90s time warp.
Anyway, after about two hours of this, we decided to actually go check out the parade. That was thwarted by a sudden torrential rainstorm, from which we took shelter in the nearest bar. Unfortunately, this bar catered so strictly to a male clientele that not only were all the bartenders wearing nothing but tighty whities, there were Sistine Chapel-esque paintings of a host of chiseled, muscle-fag cherubim on every wall and cheesy house music blaring at an eardrum-rupturing volume. "I've got my eye on that vinyl jumpsuit over there," I said to Twathopper, who started laughing, because this is a line that Brandon Walsh used from the season 2 episode of "Beverly Hills, 90210" where Emily Valentine slips U4EA into his Fresca at the "underground club" AKA gay rave the gang attends.
"God, this place is such a sausage fest," noted CuteClothes. At that moment, a group of lesbians walked in to escape the rain, and we noticed that a couple of them were pretty cute. Unfortunately, they were all couples. Typical. I swear, it's easier to find a four-leaf clover growing out of a New York City sidewalk than a lesbian who is both single and attractive.
We finished up our beers, the rain tapered off, and we fled across Christopher Street to Kettle of Fish, a bar that is marginally more lesbish. At least it's a more mixed crowd, anyway, in the sense that there were plenty of unattractive lesbians playing Galaga and watching the Euro Cup final. We proceeded to drink heavily while we waited for my buddy El Polaco to march by with his group of gay Catholics. He came by at the end of the parade, and by that time, we were shitfaced and plastered with "God Made Me Queer" stickers. At that point, we bid goodbye to CuteClothes (too bad, because I was hoping I could work the "So, we both went to Seven Sisters schools...do the math" seduction angle with her), who wisely remembered that it was a school night. The rest of us weren't so smart, and ended up going to Cubby Hole, the dyke bar where I was infamously hassled by the nefarious bulldyke Blu. Luckily, Blu was not in attendance. Less luckily, I was so shitfaced that I decided it would be a great idea to drink J-Sexy's overproof rum straight as we waited in line, resulting in me actually DANCING once I got inside. Not only did I dance, I actually smoked a cigarette inside this tiny closet of a bar, and then proceeded to try to convince Twathopper to actually talk to this girl she thought was cute. Sadly, Twathopper's alcohol consumption had caught up with her and she was rapidly devolving into a gloomy solstice depression. I kept grabbing her chin and readjusting her facial posture, saying, "Chin UP, Twathopper! Nobody wants to L a super-depressed P, girl!" Unfortunately, she was too far gone, so I said goodbye to the girl I met who was trying to talk me into going to an orgy on some boat. It's for the best, because while an orgy might be fun and an awesome story, I probably shouldn't accompany random bitches I just met onto a floating bacchanal full of strange lesbians from which there is no escape short of diving into the Hudson River. I took Twathopper home for some pizza and some good old-fashioned lesbian processing about her feelings to lift her spirits. I even watched a Tegan and Sara video on LOGO with her, and managed to turn her frown upside down once we switched on the choice "Beverly Hills, 90210" episode where Brandon embarks on a self-righteous crusade to block the High Point Center from replacing the Peach Pit.
I may not have gotten laid, and I may not have gotten my apprentice laid, but I know it was a great Pride when I was too fucking hung over and exhausted yesterday to even regale you with the tale and go off about how much the homos kick ass.
Labels: Daily Dude I Want to Hit, J-Sexy, lezbollah, NYC, Twathopper, vulgar display of faggotry
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